


A Rose by Any Other Name

by KateKintail



Category: Dollhouse, NCIS
Genre: Amnesia, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateKintail/pseuds/KateKintail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To investigate a string of attempted kidnappings, Tony assumes a false identity and goes undercover. When he suddenly goes missing, Gibbs and the team leave no stone unturned. But they couldn’t possibly have imagined that Tony would forget all about them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not my boys! I make nothing from this
> 
> Notes: Written for the 2012 Hurt/Comfort Big Bang that sort of went belly-up, so I decided to just go ahead and post it. Thank you to AnnieB for being a great betareader!

Tony’s brick red Escalade navigated the winding, circular parking structure of Ballston Mall, not needing the signs that told him what floor he was shooting for. He emerged into the sunlight at the top of the parking deck in front of Ketler Capitals Iceplex. He had to circle around once before he found a parking spot next to a cruiser, red and blue cop lights flashing. He smiled, remembering his days back in the Baltimore PD. A marine had been attacked this time, though, which meant it was NCIS jurisdiction and the cops would be clearing out soon, poor bastards.

Once he was inside, it didn’t take Tony long to find the crime scene. There was caution tape absolutely everywhere, blocking off the area stretching from the store to the locker rooms and to the base of the stairs. He flashed his badge and ducked under, careful not to spill Gibbs’ coffee in the process. Then he jogged over to the locker room to find his team.

“Nice of you to join us finally, Tony.”

McGee looked up at Ziva’s comment and cocked his head at Tony. “Where’ve you been?”

Tony shrugged innocently. “Had to get the boss some coffee. Lines were insane. And when I found out where I was headed to, I had to swing by home to pick up my autograph book. Couldn’t risk running into the Great Eight without something for him to sign.”

“Who are the great eight?”

Tony did not have to pretend to look shocked. “Ziva! You’ve lived in D.C. for how long and you don’t know anything about the hockey team? Alexander Ovechkin, captain of the Washington Capitals, wears a number eight. Won the Calder as a rookie. In 2008 he won the Lester B. Pearson, MVP, the Art Ross, the Rocket Richard—”

“I did not realize you were so into hockey, Tony. I thought your sport was basketball.”

“To play, yeah. But my first year out of college, before I joined the Force in Baltimore, I was an assistant athletic trainer for a hockey team. And the Caps, well, you can’t get much better than them.” He looked around, as if expecting to see the NHL team walk past at that very moment.

“You’re outa luck, Tony,” McGee said, taking measurements of two drops of blood spatter on the floor. “They cancelled practices the rest of the day. They didn’t want to risk anyone else being hurt and we’re kind of taking over here.” McGee paused, looking thoughtful. “You know, if you’d gotten to a scene this late in the days before you were practically married to Gibbs, he’d have had your head.”

Tony beamed, his grin wide, even when Gibbs’ hand came out of nowhere and slapped the back of his head. Then, in the same smooth movement, it swept down and took the Styrofoam coffee cup from Tony’s hand. Gibbs took a long gulp of the drink, then another. Finally, he turned and pressed his lips to Tony’s cheek in a kiss that was both soft and as casual as a hello. One of these days, Tony planned to turn his head at just the right moment and catch Gibbs in a proper kiss. He knew the man wasn’t a fan of that while they were on the job, but Tony craved that kiss, all warm and tasting like strong coffee.

Tony knew better than to ask to be filled in, but Ziva did him the favor anyway as Gibbs moved on to talk to some important-looking people in suits and ties. “Stuart Jackson, twenty-two, was attacked here this morning. He’s part of a navy hockey team that practices on one of the rinks here every Thursday morning. Apparently they’re facing off against the army hockey team in a few months.”

“Ah. The old army-navy rivalry extends to the ice,” he said in a dramatic, film trailer narrator sort of voice. “So what happened to the guy? And why are the Arlington cops still here?”

“He was hit on the head in there, could have killed him,” McGee said. “There’s a trail of blood leading out from the changing room as he tried to get away. Then he was hit again, in the back, and went right down over there.” McGee pointed to a spot surrounded by little yellow number cards.

Ziva answered Tony’s second question. “Apparently, a civilian was attacked here last week, exact same MO. The guy’s in a coma and cannot identify his attackers, but the police still want to be involved in this investigation. They’ve given us jurisdiction over this one, but they want to be kept in the loop.”

Sufficiently caught up, Tony got out the camera and began snapping photos.  
  


*  
  


“Hey, Boss?” Tony sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. Gibbs looked around his computer monitor at him. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

They’d been back at the office for hours, processing evidence and tracking down leads that all lead to painfully obvious dead ends. Who mugged a guy busy changing into a hockey sweater? Who mugged a guy without a wallet in the locker room of the most expensive hockey training facility in the area? Who mugged a big hockey player when you could just jump out from behind a sign at a random METRO station and grab someone’s iPad? Tony had been making phone calls so long his ear felt hot even when he put the receiver down.

“Ya gonna tell me what it is, DiNozzo? ‘Cause I’m not playing 20 Questions with you.”

Tony gave a little smile. “Abby would play.” He cleared his throat, before Gibbs could banish him to Abby’s lab for the remainder of the case. “There was an attack last week and one this week. What do you think the chances are that there will be one next week?”

“Probably pretty high.”

Having just hung up his phone, McGee joined the conversation. “The problem is, we don’t know exactly when or where. We could set up video, but by the time we got there, it would probably be too late, even if we set up surveillance at the Iceplex.”

“Yeah,” Tony agreed. “And the last thing we want to do is to scare this guy away and have him strike somewhere else like at the Verizon Center before a game. So I was thinking… what if I went undercover at the Iceplex?”

Everyone turned to look at him, even Ziva, who was still on the phone, apparently talking to a member of the janitorial staff.

“I don’t play hockey, but I do have a degree in sports medicine. I could help the onsite staff out, claim to be consulting and building my client list. Then I could get the inside scoop if it was something like drugs and I’d be right there when anything went down.”

“Do you think these players could be mixed up in steroids?” McGee asked.

“Nah. Doesn’t really give a hockey player the same sort of advantage. But if something’s going on, I’d find out. Players don’t really notice trainers unless there’s blood involved. I’d blend right into the background and be able to overhear conversations.”

Gibbs considered this for a little while. So long, in fact, that the rest of his team returned to their phone calls. But at the end of the day, when they’d worked through dinner and still had a big, fat, glaring nothing to show for it, Gibbs turned to Tony in the elevator. “Okay. Let’s talk about building you a cover and sending you in.”

 

*

 

It took a day and a half to create an identity deep enough for Tony. They’d thought about using his Anthony Dinardo persona, but there was enough baggage there already without having to worry about which one of the Frog’s business connections might happen to track him down while in the middle of this investigation. They threw around a few possibilities—Tony was partial to Tommy, just to annoy McGee a little—but in the end they settled on Terry Esposito.

He got a fake passport, driver’s license, college degree. He got a car, an apartment in Arlington, within walking distance of the mall and METRO, and even a cactus plant which, of course, he named David. He got a job as an athletics trainer at the Iceplex; the staff being more than happy to accommodate him if it meant catching the attacker and accepting the free service in the meantime.

Tony was excited about the adventure, but he had to admit it was also a little bittersweet.

“So you’re all ready to go undercover tomorrow?” Gibbs asked, settling down on the bed next to Tony.

“Yep. Everything’s in place.”

Gibbs’ hand found the back of Tony’s neck then slid down. Fingers played with the neck of Tony’s shirt, then gathered the fabric into his fist and pulled. Up came the shirt, over Tony’s head. Then the hand rubbed Tony’s back. “So this is my last chance to make love to you for a while.”

“Or… it’s your first chance to make love to Terry Esposito.”

Gibbs’ mouth turned up into a tiny smile. “I don’t know, but you just don’t seem like a Terry to me.”

Tony fell back against the pillows, dramatically fainting in shock. “That hurts, Gibbs. That really hurts. You don’t even know Terry. I think you’d like him.”

“Really?” Gibbs slid down on the bed and ran his hand over Tony’s chest. He pretended to be too interested in Tony’s body to say anything more about it. 

But Tony caught his hand and wove his fingers in with Gibbs’ to keep them still, to keep Gibbs’ attention. Gibbs wasn’t a big talker, but he knew when he should tell Tony to shut up and when to listen. “Fine.” He nuzzled close, preparing for a story. “You’ve got five minutes to win me over, Esposito, or I’m gonna have my way with DiNozzo.”

Let it be said that Tony liked a challenge. “All right. Cue the life story. I was born in a bad part of Baltimore to a single mom. My dad ran out on us before I was born and good riddance to him. Mom worked for Johns Hopkins University Hospital as an orderly or, I guess the politically correct term is nursing assistant. She really wanted to be a nurse, though, so as soon as I was toilet trained I was off to daycare and she was off to nursing school around her shifts.

“Mom didn’t make much, and most of what she did make went straight into the rent and food. We didn’t even have a car; had to take the bus to the aquarium even. But I didn’t care. I didn’t need much growing up. I was happy, especially when I played sports. It didn’t even matter what sport it was. If it was competition, I was there. I played street hockey with the kids on my block, kickball at school, basketball at the rec center… you name it, I played it.

“Except, I wasn’t all that good at it. I was kind of accident-prone on the court or field. I’d come home with banged up knees or bloody noses, I even managed to break my leg while playing soccer on the world’s muddiest field once. It came in handy that my mom was in the medical field. And the staff at the emergency room got to know me really well, that’s for sure. They always fixed me up right. And even though sometimes it took a while to recover, I always bounced back and went right back out there to play another game. I feel like that’s the reason I wanted to do something in the medical field when I grew up. And my mom was thrilled that I was sort of following in her footsteps.

“She died before she could see it happen, though. She was there for me when I grew up, going to games when she could and cheering for me. She took photos of me and my girlfriend before we headed out to prom senior year. She helped me move into my dorm room at the University of Maryland and even bought me a TV for the room—making her an instant celebrity on my floor. But she died in a car accident halfway through my freshman year.

“I took a semester off to deal, which I didn’t do very well. I kind of drank myself stupid every night, if you want to know. And Mom wouldn’t have wanted me to give up on account of some homeless guy who wandered onto the road at the wrong time of night in front of a car, causing a six-car pileup. So I went back to school and concentrated on my classes. I still played sports in my off hours, though purely recreational. That crazy guy out on the fields playing football in the pouring rain on Sunday mornings? That guy organizing a softball tournament among frats? That guy with the membership to the country club just for the use of that amazing golf course? Yeah, that was me.

“I graduated with a sports medicine degree and worked with a couple smalltime local teams until I ended up landing a dream job on staff for the Baltimore Ravens. I was on top of the world, I swear. There was only one small hang-up: I’d finally admitted to myself that my prom date from high school was the first and last woman I’ll have ever slept with.”

Gibbs interrupted, shifting a little, moving closer to Tony. “You’re gay?”

“As a rainbow colored picnic basket, yeah.”

Gibbs winced a little, but under that was a smile he seemed determined not to let free.

“I couldn’t come out at work. Sports is one of the last bastions of heterosexuality. None of those football players would want me touching them if they knew the male form turned me on like no one’s business. I could separate my job and my private life, but it’s hard to convince others of that. I was there to get those guys healed so they could go out and play the best games of their lives. I wasn’t there to get a boyfriend.

“And I couldn’t go out to the bars. There are a couple gay bars, but I couldn’t risk someone seeing and recognizing me. Everyone in Baltimore knows someone who knows someone whose neighbor plays for the Ravens or whose lawn is mowed by a son of the brother of the coach or something. So I couldn’t come out. I couldn’t acknowledge my feelings. And then, suddenly, the worst possible thing happened: I fell in love with my boss.”

This time, Tony saw the smile. It was brief, and Gibbs hid back away as soon as it was out, but it had been there all right.

“He was handsome and dashing, a real guy’s guy, a jock’s jock. I wanted him so badly, but I couldn’t say a thing. If he initiated something, sure, I’d be on my knees, mouth open, throat relaxed, ready for anything. But he wouldn’t say anything. And so I had to admire from afar. But, just like with sports, I made some mistakes. Instead of skinned knees or broken wrists, I was spotted shopping from the wrong shelves at the local porn store.

“They claimed they were not firing me because I was gay. And there was no black mark on my record. I was free to go anywhere else, as long as I didn’t stay there. My last day of work, they threw me such a party. All the guys I’d been terrified would find out showed up anyway to wish me well, to tell me I’d made a difference in their careers, to tell me they were sorry about the fucked up situation.

“And that’s why it wasn’t so bad heading out of town. I opened my own little practice, got some consulting gigs right off the bat with the DC United, and made enough money to afford a great place in the middle of Arlington. I didn’t advertise my sexuality, but I didn’t change pronouns or lie if asked outright. I even thought about contacting my old boss to see if we could hook up. An hour and a half wasn’t too much of a separation. But I never worked up the courage. And he definitely didn’t contact me.”

He took a deep breath and met Gibbs’ eyes with purpose and determination brimming beneath the surface.

“So, you see, Jethro. I’ve never even slept with a guy.” He pulled his hand out of Gibbs’ and cupped the man’s face, fingertips brushing against the stubble. “Would you be my first?”

Gibbs’ eyes lit up and his “Hell yes!” was lost in the creaking of bedsprings as he attacked with a kiss so strong it made them both a bit dizzy.

“Be gentle,” he requested as Gibbs went for the lube and condoms in the top drawer of the nightstand. “Please?”

“Of course.” Gibbs touched a finger to his nose, then let it slide downward, resting on soft lips. Then away went the finger, replaced with Gibbs’ mouth. Gibbs claimed him with another kiss, wrapping strong arms around him, holding him close. “I’ll take you and give you something you’ll be able to remember every day on the job when we’re apart.”


	2. Chapter 2

Tony never slept well the night before a big trip or a big change. But that night he slept as soundly as if he really had been a virgin being made love to for three hours straight. Gibbs had been so tender and careful. Tony almost wondered why they hadn’t tried role-playing before, but their sex was always so good that it hadn’t been necessary. 

Leaning over the sleeping man in their bed, Tony gave the softest kiss possible to Jethro’s temple so as to not wake him. Tony reached over and turned off the first alarm, leaving the second one on so that Gibbs wouldn’t be late to work at NCIS. How Tony was going to get through a week with only one brief daily call on a burn phone to headquarters to check in, he wasn’t sure. But he suspected that Gibbs would miss him as much as he was going to miss Gibbs. 

But the memory of those long hours of lovemaking was certainly going to help. Tony quickly changed, stuffing his pockets with keys and a wallet belonging to Terry. And he headed out to catch the bus to the Metro to his new apartment, already furnished and filled with enough food, clothes, and DVDs to last him until they caught whoever was targeting hockey players. 

Instead of going to his apartment, he headed to Ketler Capitals Iceplex and got there just as Lewis Billingsley got there to open up for the day. “Welcome aboard, Terry. It’s good to have you,” the man said as he deposited his jacket in his office and started what he called “The ten million dollar tour.” 

The money that had been sunk into the place really seemed to pay off in details from the quality and upkeep of the ice on the rinks to the various pieces of equipment trainers had at their disposal. There was a labyrinth of rooms and some private access areas Tony got a bit of a fanboy thrill to venture into. Everything was state-of-the-art and flashy, but it also felt warm and familiar. He was thrown back immediately to his days working as a trainer, and he had to admit he was excited about getting to do it again. 

“Terry Esposito. It’s my first day on the job,” he said, shaking hands and giving smiles to everyone he came across. It was possible some of them had seen him briefly when they’d done the crime scene investigation. But he’d shown up after most everyone had been cleared out—either sent home or taken aside for questioning. He’d been worried someone might contradict him, but no one did. On the contrary, everyone seemed delighted to meet him and use his services. 

By “services” he had expected to be taping up sprains or going through therapy exercises. Instead, he spent his first five hours doing an inventory on the supplies. The only saving grace was that it wasn’t scrubbing out the soak tubs by hand. When he got to the point where seeing another Ace bandage box was going to make him go crazy, Lewis reappeared. 

“Hey. Have you got plans tonight? Some of us go out to a bar just ‘round the corner after work and you’re welcome to come with.” 

With a grin, “Sounds great.” Tony DiNozzo drank occasionally. His father’s history with alcohol abuse made Tony a little reluctant to have more than a drink or two at a time, but with the things he saw on the job, sometimes a good drink was just the thing. Terry Esposito, he had decided, did not drink. After that semester being stone cold drunk after the death of his mother, Terry didn’t touch the stuff. He had an AA card in his wallet, in fact. But going out to a bar with the guys was just the thing he needed to make him feel like a part of this world. 

So at six o’clock, Terry Esposito left work to be one of the guys hanging out at a bar. 

Even without consuming alcohol, he had one of the best times of his life. The other trainers and support staff were hilarious—dirty jokes and stories that made him feel like he was there with his frat brothers or even just friends he’d known for ages. More importantly, they seemed to think he was just as funny as they were. Kate probably would have given him one of those looks of disgust if she’d been alive to see his performance. But Caitlyn Todd had never met Terry Esposito, so he joked with a clean conscience. 

And at eight o’clock on this Tuesday night, Rock Bottom Brewery had a pub trivia contest. Terry was roped right into playing. The final question of the night was about beer, naturally, but the predominant theme for the night was, to his delight, movies. Needless to say, the team from Ketler Capitals Iceplex with the team name ICE DAWGS steamrolled the competition. 

“Judy Garland was paid $35 a week for her role of Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. How much was the dog who played Toto paid?”

Terry scribbled down the answer in about a second. When his coworkers seemed uncertain as to if “$125 a week” could be right, Terry just sat back and smiled with certainty.

“In the film Casablanca, what did Humphrey Bogart say to the piano player?” 

Everyone at the table went with “Play it again, Sam” but Terry insisted on “Play it, Sam.” They were all shocked when he was right. 

“Who were Sesame Street’s characters Bert and Ernie named after?” 

“The cop and the cab driver from It’s a Wonderful Life. Everyone knows that,” said Terry. But apparently not everyone knew that, because their team was the only one to get it correct. 

Victory came with lots of cheers and a ticket for $10 off the next meal or drinks at the Rock Bottom Brewery. 

“Terry, you’re amazing!” Morgan said, leaning into him as Terry walked him out. “Where’d you learn all that stuff?” 

Terry shrugged. “I watch a lot of movies. Never really met a movie I didn’t like.” For a moment, he thought about his Anthony DeNardo identity, teaching film studies at the university. He was so many people: Tony, Anthony, and now Terry. But, somehow, deep down, they were all him. 

Tony got back to Terry’s new place a little after midnight. It certainly didn’t have the familiarity of his home with Gibbs, but it had its own charm. He practically melted into the couch, it was so cushy. His television was the centerpiece of the living room, which did not contain a dresser, ironing board, shoe-shining kit, or frying pan. There were magazines he was actually interested in reading spread out on the coffee table, which was the prefect height for propping his feet up.

He dug his burn phone out of his pocket and dialed the very first number on speed dial. It went immediately to a recording asking him to leave a message, just as they’d planned before Tony had left. “This is Agent DiNozzo checking in from the apartment. First day at work went well and my identity as Terry Esposito seems intact. Just settling in for the night now. No suspicious activity to report. I’ll check in again tomorrow night unless events warrant an immediate response.” 

With that, Tony hung up. He would have liked to have said more. He would have liked to have left a personal note for his team or for Gibbs. God, he missed Gibbs. But this was for the record. This was official. This was his job. 

Sighing, Tony stuck in a DVD and fell asleep before it was finished.


	3. Chapter 3

Days flew right by and not once were the words “Petty officer found dead in Rock Creek Park. Grab your gear,” uttered in his presence. He assimilated effortlessly into the life of Terry Esposito.

He was even given more exciting things to do on the job. On his second day, he taped up the fingers of two players and he did strength-training exercises with another. He kept his eyes peeled for anyone suspicious or anyone hanging around who he hadn’t been introduced to the day before. At the end of the night, he had nothing notable to report to the answering service at NCIS.

On his third day, he got to watch the Washington Capitals practice and helped inspect Greeny’s ankle, as it had been giving the defenseman some trouble lately. The building came to a halt for a whole hour when they were practicing in order to watch. With the acquisition of Alexander Ovechkin, Washington had only recently become a true hockey town, so it was wonderful to see so many fans show up for practices on a weekday morning. He was in heaven watching the professional team practice their drills, them hone their skills, and shoot pucks at the net at the end until they made a goal which was their ticket to leave the ice and head to the locker room. However, for the most part, he watched the people watching the Caps more than he watched the Caps themselves.

Some of the fans had brought headshots or jerseys or cards for the stars to sign. Some of them took photos of the guys practicing. But none of them stood out to Tony as crazy. Certainly none of them struck him as the kind of person who might lose it and assault one of the hockey players. He knew the rest of the staff at the Ketler Capitals Iceplex was keeping watch as well. No one wanted anyone attacked, but especially not someone famous. The international media would have a field day with it on top of everything else, especially when they found out about the two prior incidents. At the end of the night, he reported back that all was well and that security had been doubled in the facility that day. He wondered to himself if the culprit would even try again, risking being caught this time.

On his fourth day, he got his answer. He sat in one of the locker rooms with a player from the Alexandria Assassins, a co-ed recreational hockey club of young guys just out of college. It’d been started on meetup.com, of all places, but had gained popularity so quickly they soon had enough players to make up two small teams playing against each other. The guy he was taking care of was twice his size. He’d gone up hard against the boards in a check. And while the boards and glass gave as they were supposed to, the man had struck them at such an angle that, when the check was over, he had hit the ice shoulder-first.

“Doesn’t look too bad. Probably just jammed it. But an ice pack might not be a bad idea, just in case to keep bruises from setting in.” Accordingly, he pressed an ice pack to the man’s shoulder. The guy, a beefy enforcer named Oliver, shivered at first touch then adjusted to it. His hair was dark and in a close buzz cut and his eyes were just as dark. But he had dimples when he smiled or grimaced. “Make sure to keep moving the joint so it doesn’t lock up on you. If it feels sore tomorrow, you can alternate cold and heat all day. And if it bothers you after that, I want you to come right back, Oliver, so I can get a better look at you.” He wrote some notes down on the chart he’d started for Oliver, documenting the injury. Rotator cuff, acromioclavicular joint, glenohumeral joint, scapula, and humerus. The parts came back to him as if his last anatomy exam had been just yesterday. “You can take an extra Ibuprofen if the pain gets worse. Don’t do any heavy lifting and no more hard checks until the pain goes away. Got it?”

“Absolutely, Doc.” He bobbed his head in a nod of appreciation.

Grinning and scribbling a few more notes on the bottom of the chart, “No need to call me that. I’m just a…” he trailed off—not because he couldn’t remember what he was or because he had very nearly given up his real identity, but because there was a shadow moving on the far wall. It moved too fast to react to it properly. He reached for his phone and was about to spin around, but that was when he felt the blow to the back of his head. There was a brief moment of euphoria where he wasn’t sure what had happened to him. And then there was pain so intense his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness.

 

*

 

He woke feeling groggy, the world spinning before his eyes for a good ten seconds before it came into focus for him. Then he realized he was reclining in a chair in a charcoal gray room with a ceiling fan spinning lazily above a trio of bulbs above his head.

“Good morning, Trey. I hope you’re feeling better?”

He blinked at the woman coming into view from his right side. She had long blonde hair and dull hazel eyes. She wore a black jumpsuit. And though he couldn’t remember ever meeting her before, he knew exactly who she was. He couldn’t remember who he was, but she’d called him ‘Trey’ and, somehow, that felt right. “Much better, thanks,” he said, the sound of his voice making this world feel real to him all of a sudden. “Though I could use a coffee.”

She smiled charmingly. “Oh, I think that can be arranged.” She held out her hand to help him up and lead him from the gray room.

The cafeteria was small, with just a dozen round tables placed haphazardly around the room. He went through the line, picking up a plate of loosely scrambled eggs, a pair of pieces of toast along with a small jar of jelly to spread on them, a few hot and sizzling strips of bacon, and a cup of black coffee. He found an empty table and sat down at it just as another man sat down at it opposite him. “Sorry, were you saving a seat for someone?” the man asked.

 “No, it’s all yours, if you want it.” He shook his head and held out his hand. “I’m Trey. Nice to meet you.”

The man smiled, and Trey noticed the dimples, one in each cheek. “Octavius,” he said. He reached out to shake Trey’s hand and winced.

Trey sat up straighter in his seat. “Are you all right?”

Octavius nodded. “Yeah, it’s just… my arm hurts a little bit.” His left hand massaged gingerly at his shoulder. He shrugged and moved his arm around a little, testing it out. Then he reached out and shook Trey’s hand properly. “Strange. I don’t remember injuring it.”

Tony dug into his breakfast with the enthusiasm of someone just coming off a day of fasting. “Maybe you slept on it wrong and pinched a nerve.”

“Maybe.” The man nodded, as if slowly accepting this answer.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

Both Trey and Octavius looked up. A beautiful young redhead stood before them, looking uncertain. They exchanged looks. Then both Trey and Octavius scooted over to give her plenty of room to sit down.

She laughed and took a seat, setting down her bowl of Cheerios and raisons. “My name is Dixie.”

Breakfast was a delightful affair. And after breakfast, they all attended an art class. Trey used oil paints to depict a seascape with a brooding dark sky and a small wooden sailboat tossed on choppy waves. He was praised by the instructor, a tall man in a black jumpsuit, for his technique in depicting realistic movement; Trey beamed at the compliment and told her, “I always strive to do my best.”

After painting, they were treated to a simple lunch of a garden salad and chicken salad sandwiches. Trey requested his without the tomatoes and, when asked why by his newfound friends, he had absolutely no reason to give apart from having the feeling that he didn’t like them.

There was a light exercise class that afternoon. They changed into workout clothes for it—Trey’s were gray sweatpants and a white tank top. He stood in front of the mirror in the changing room. Both he and his mirror reflection had their heads cocked to the side. His brown hair was shortish, swept to the side with pieces sticking out in various directions. He reached up to run his hand through, but that did nothing to put them right. He noticed the curves of his upper arm muscles, shown off by the sleeveless top. He looked into his own eyes, the soft brown gazing back at him. It was strange that there was so little recognition when he saw himself. His face seemed vaguely familiar, but somehow it didn’t really even feel like his. He reached up and ran a finger down the bridge of his nose, along the skin above his mouth, and let his fingertip rest upon his closed lips.

“Move along,” came a woman’s voice, and Trey found himself jostled away from the mirror and into a room full of mats and exercise bicycles. He took a spot at the back of the room and surveyed the others. He spotted Dixie near the front, bouncing in place and clearly eager to get started. And he saw Octavius by the door, talking to someone in a black jumpsuit. Tony could see the prominent grass green and deep purple of a bruise on the man’s shoulder.

The instructor told everyone to mount the bikes, and Trey obediently got on. But he kept an eye on his friend. Now two people in black jumpsuits were talking with Octavius. One gestured to his arm. The other gestured to the locker room. Finally, Octavius retreated back to the locker room; he did not return to work out.

Trey lost himself in a book for the rest of the weekend. He stretched out on a couch with the book on his lap, surrounded by Halloween decorations on all sides.

At dinner, Trey got his chance to ask what those people talking to Octavius had said.

“I don’t remember it, but apparently I fell off the exercise bike yesterday and banged my shoulder up in the process. They thought it would be better for me to skip the workout until I recovered. I told them I could still work out, that I would just take it easy and not fall off the bike again. I told them I wanted to show them that I could be my best. But they still ordered me to leave.” He shrugged and winced just a little from the movement. “I guess they were probably right.”

Trey nodded. “You don’t want to make it worse by aggravating it. I’m sure if you just rest it, it’ll be fine. Maybe you should put something warm on it, or something cool?”

Octavius nodded and pressed his unopened can of Pepsi against his arm. He smiled at the sensation that brought. “What a great suggestion. That does actually feel better.”

Dixie joined them and began eating her spaghetti. They were just a few minutes into dinner when a man in dark sunglasses and a black jumpsuit came over and put his hand on Dixie’s shoulder. “Dixie, could you come with us, please? It’s time for your treatment.”

She nodded and put her fork down. Without even saying goodbye, she left, following the man out of the cafeteria.

“Think she’ll be back?” Trey asked, watching the doorway as if she might reappear there.

“I doubt it.”

“Then dibs on her garlic bread!” Trey said, grabbing the untouched chunk of buttery goodness and claiming it with a giant bite.

Octavius just laughed.

After dinner, they headed for the showers before bed. The water was wonderfully warm and Trey stood in front of it, letting it soak his hair and run down the length of his body. With a dozen others showering in the room with him, the place was filled with steam.

He wrapped a white towel around his waist and shivered as he moved from the warmth of the steamy shower area to the changing station. Pajamas had been set out for each of them, and Trey moved for the ones beneath the cubby with his name on it, only to be stopped by the man in sunglasses he had seen speaking earlier with Dixie. “Before you get dressed, you need to have a treatment.”

Trey looked at him blankly for a moment, then all reasoning drained from him and he followed the man blindly down the halls. He was given something else to wear—a formal, expensive tuxedo—and a man helped him put it on properly, right down to the cummerbund and cufflinks. As directed, Trey took a seat in what looked like a chair you might find at a dentist’s office and looked around the gray room. There were monitors behind him, but they were out of sight from the position in which he was sitting. There was a ceiling fan spinning away overhead, and just looking at it sort of lulled him further into submission.

He closed his eyes, waiting for something to happen.

Voices spoke from out of nowhere, hushed but just loud enough for Trey to catch most of what they were saying. “I still don’t like the idea of using a new doll. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since his wipe.”

“Your report stated that three hours was the minimum waiting time between wipes. I don’t see the problem here.”

“The problem is, we don’t even know this guy. What if he’s recognized?”

“Did you think we just threw him in here un-vetted? We did extensive research on the guy. Terry Esposito was new to the area; he’d only been living here in Northern Virginia for a week. He’s got no living relatives, no Facebook account, no friends here yet, no one to miss him except coworkers, and we took care of that wrinkle in about a second.”

“Thanks to _my_ handwriting replication program.”

“Yes, thanks to your program. He’s the perfect candidate and we just lucked onto him. We’re one short while Octavius is still healing, and this guy’s been cleared for action. Besides, this is just a quick engagement.”

“All right. But if something goes wrong and the identity starts to slip, I want him extracted immediately.”

“Carson will be standing by. Won’t be a problem.”

“It had better not be. I don’t want the dollhouse compromised because of some stupid trainer who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

There was silence for a while, and then Trey heard footsteps. A voice in his ear told him to expect a small pinch, so he tensed up.

When he opened his eyes, a man in a work shirt and khakis stood before him. The man had salt and pepper hair and the kindest blue eyes he’d ever seen. The man smiled at him. “Good day. My name is Carson. Are you feeling all right, Richard?”

Blinking to clear his head, Richard jumped up from the white chair. With a thick British accent, he replied, “No, of course I’m not, you berk. I’m late for a party.”

The man nodded. “I’m here to drive you so you’ll get there on time.”

“Brilliant. Now you’re talking. Let’s go, then.”

Richard was not a fan of the big black van that took him there. “Why you couldn’t spring for a limo, I don’t know, but at least you could have managed something with seatbelts.” He waved his hand at all the equipment. “And what’s with all these video monitors?”

“I’m your security detail. This is to keep you safe, Richard.”

“That’s _Mister_ _Smyth_ to you. Imbecile. I’m going to have to talk to my assistant about who he hires from now on.”

The man smiled rather endearingly. “I guarantee you’ll be pleased with my work tonight, Mr. Smyth.”

“I’d better be.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stayed silent for the remainder of the ride.

When they arrived at the destination, they parked on the side, away from the main entrance where the vehicle could be seen. The man with salt and pepper hair slid the van door open for him and offered him a hand so he could jump out properly, but he refused the help and landed with both feet on the pavement at the same time. “Do you expect me to hike to the house?”

“No. He expects you to come with me, you dashing gentleman you.” A limousine pulled up alongside the parked van. One of the many back windows was half down and a woman with a five hundred dollar haircut and earrings twice her driver’s annual salary batted her extended eyelashes at him. “You’re mine tonight.”

Richard blinked a moment then his face lit up, recognizing her from movies and magazine covers. He ran his hand through his brown side-parted hair and grinned. “That’s more like it.” The door popped open and he climbed into the limo, immediately taking the woman’s hand and kissing it. “Enchanté.”

Richard was the absolute life of the party. His presence was noticed immediately and all the party-goers seemed drawn to him. He told stories of his time growing up in Oxford and then London, of dining with the queen and the prime minister, of starting his own charity. Men laughed at his tasteful but solid jokes. Women swooned at his observations. But all the while he kept his arm wrapped around the beautiful starlet’s waist, letting her know she was the only one he wanted to be with.

The only time he broke away was when he took a position at the piano and played and sang for her a love song. Couples danced and kissed, gazing dreamily into each other’s eyes at Richard’s voice, the accent pronounced even when he was in song.

This kicked off the dancing, of course. Drinks were put down and the ballroom floor simply filled with couples. Men led, women twirled, and the movement was beautifully coordinated as if they had been hired and had trained with a famous choreographer. Richard led the woman across the dance floor as they danced the waltz, the rumba, the pasa doble, the foxtrot, the samba, and, of course, the tango. Richard was particularly good at the tango. He seemed to produce a red rose from out of nowhere just for it.

It was a shame to have such a magical, perfect night come to an end. But, all too soon, people began to leave. Richard escorted his date out in the midst of the group so they would not overstay their welcome. But he found himself pulled aside by the head of his security just as he left. “It’s time for your treatment.”

Richard froze for a second, as though not sure he really wanted a treatment. Then he apologized to his date. They parted with a grandiose kiss. He dipped her, holding her with care, and pressed his lips hard to hers. His technique was flawless and left her gasping, heart pounding when he held her against his chest. But he went back into the van to head back for his treatment.

 

*

 

Gibbs sat at work, his hand on the receiver of the phone at his desk. McGee had programmed it to automatically call him when a voice mail was left in the account set up for Tony. It was true that Tony hadn’t called until midnight the first night, but it was pushing two in the morning now and there still wasn’t anything from him. Gibbs tried not to worry. Tony was a professional. And people would notice if there had been another attack. Surely Tony couldn’t be lying dead on the floor of the Iceplex without _someone_ saying something. He’d called security there three times already, and they had nothing significant to report, even though they made the rounds again just to appease him.

Could Tony have forgotten to check in? Maybe he had gone out with the guys at work and had lost all track of time? Maybe he’d lost his phone? Maybe he had fallen asleep in front of the television—goodness knew he did that often enough at home. Sometimes Gibbs didn’t have the heart to wake him. Gibbs would cover him with the quilt they kept draped over the back of the couch and then squeeze onto the couch with Tony. It wasn’t quite big enough for both of them, but somehow they managed to fit, especially if Gibbs lay on top of Tony or Tony snuggled up tight against Gibbs’ chest. That’s how Gibbs liked it best, with both his arms wrapped tightly around him, locking them together, keeping Tony safe.

Gibbs picked up the phone and dialed the number again. It beeped and reported that there were no new messages. In response, Gibbs swore colorfully and slammed the receiver back down. “Damn it, DiNozzo. Why the hell aren’t you calling?”

He was exhausted and worried, but altogether too worked up to go home. Sitting at his desk was making him feel sick, so he got up and paced around the room a while. The place was dark apart from the light at his desk and the minimal emergency lighting around the perimeter of the room. Gibbs found his way over to Tony’s desk. He didn’t want to sit down in Tony’s chair, but he stood there, looking down at the absurd Mighty Mouse stapler and the Angry Bird pig stress ball. The trashcan was empty. The computer was off. And the light on his phone was blinking red to indicate he had at least one message waiting there for him.

Suddenly sure that message might be from Tony, Gibbs picked up the phone, jabbed at the numbers to key in the voice mail pass code, and selected to listen to all messages. There was silence at first, and something like worry flipped and wriggled in Gibbs’ chest. Then came a message from Jules in accounting. Tony had forgotten to submit his timesheet due the day before and needed to get it in by Monday or he wouldn’t get paid for the pay period. She left her number and the message ended. Then the phone system jumped back in, asking him to save or delete the message or press pound for more options. When Gibbs saved it, the system told him there were no more messages.

Gibbs swore again, even more colorfully, and kicked the empty trashcan over. If Tony wasn’t in trouble, Gibbs was absolutely going to kill him. 


	4. Chapter 4

Trey woke feeling a little groggy. It took a moment to focus on the charcoal gray room around him and realize the ceiling fan was the thing spinning, not the inside of his head.

“Good morning, Trey. I hope you’re feeling better?”

A beautiful woman with long blond hair in two braids walked around him on his right to stand in his field of vision. “Much better, thanks,” Trey replied, suddenly feeling it. “Though I could use a coffee.”

“That can be arranged,” she said, nodding and smiling before offering her hand to help him up out of the chair he lounged in. Obediently, he rose and followed her out of the gray room.

The buffet offered a variety of breakfast foods from which to choose. After loading his plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, and two pieces of toast, he surveyed the small cafeteria for a place to sit. He spotted a few tables with people already sitting at them, but he didn’t want to interrupt them. Then he saw an empty table and headed straight for it at the same time another man did.

They reached the table at precisely the same time and smiled at each other. He noticed the guy had amazing dimples. “I’m Trey,” Trey said.

“Octavius,” the guy said. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all,” Trey said, gesturing toward the seat across from him as he put down his tray and sat down. He was in the middle of spreading strawberry jelly on his toast when his eyes went wide. “I forgot coffee!”

Octavius glanced over at the coffee maker and stack of cups by it. “Looks like there’s still a lot left.”

Trey abandoned his food at once and went for a cup. He didn’t add any cream or sugar or even any flavoring. When he sat down with the cup, he let out a soft sigh of relief. He took a sip and pulled a face. “I don’t even like coffee, but for some reason I just needed it.”

“A craving?”

Trey shrugged. “Maybe.” But that wasn’t it. He knew that wasn’t it, because he didn’t want to drink it. He just wanted to have it. To hold it and feel its warmth. To smell it and let it wake him up. To taste it and make him remember…

“I’m told we have an art class after breakfast. I’m not very good at drawing.”

Trey nodded. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. It’s important just to be your best, right?”

“Absolutely.” Octavius raised his glass of orange juice and gave Tony a nod of appreciation.

 

*

 

Gibbs woke up when the cleaning crew came in around six-thirty in the morning. He sat straight up at his desk and immediately dialed the phone number his fingers knew by touch now. There was a beep and then it told him there were no new messages. Gibbs hung up as it asked if he wanted to listen to the archived messages. He’d done that several times the night before, just to hear Tony’s voice. But he knew those by heart now and it was painful to hear him again, not knowing why there was no new message. Something was wrong; he could feel it in his gut.

“G’morning,” McGee called, the moment he emerged from the elevator. He slid a strap around his dripping umbrella and stashed it under his desk before slipping out of his jacket. “You’re in early, Boss.”

Gibbs nodded and fought a yawn. He’d had a couple hours of sleep bent over his desk. Sure his back hurt and there was a bad kink in his neck, but that was nothing compared to his certainty that something was wrong.

“Haven’t heard from Tony. I think something’s up. Get Ziva in here. We’re going to the Iceplex.”

“Did Tony leave a message with the code word?” Before he’d gone under, they had agreed on a code word Tony was to use in case of trouble. That way, if he didn’t have a chance to spell out the entire situation over the phone or if he were compromised and couldn’t talk frankly without revealing his cover, the NCIS team would still know something was wrong and would respond. The word Tony had chosen—and Gibbs had reluctantly agreed to—was cucumber.

“No, he didn’t. He didn’t leave a message at all.” Saying it out loud made it sound a lot more like he was just overreacting.

“Um, Boss, shouldn’t we maybe give them a call first? If we just storm in there, we risk exposing Tony’s identity.”

Gibbs gritted his teeth. The elflord was right about that, damn it. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He needed coffee. Hell, he needed DiNozzo, and he intended to stay in a bad mood until he figured out why the man hadn’t reported in as he was supposed to have. “Fine. Call. Then we’ll go over.”

It took half an hour for Ziva to get to work, thanks to an inevitable accident on the beltway. Commuters in Washington, D.C., had a difficult time driving properly on the best of days, but all semblance of order went right out the window when it rained. That was enough time for McGee to get a hold of the manager of Ketler Capitals Iceplex.

He put on a slightly fake voice, just in case Tony’s cover needed to be preserved. “Yes, hello. My name is Kiffin Esposito, I’m looking for my brother, Terry. My wife just went into labor and Terry promised he’d look after my other kids while we’re at the hospital. But I can’t seem to reach him at home or on his cell phone. Is he there?”

There was a long pause, during which McGee’s face fell and his expression grew serious.

When he spoke again, he tried to make himself sound cheery. “Oh dear. Maybe I’ll be able to take the kids over to the neighbors then. Thanks for checking for me.”

He hung up the phone and Gibbs rounded on him. “Tony—or should I say Terry—left a note saying he was out sick today.” 

Gibbs practically growled with anger. “I should’ve gone over last night as soon as I suspected something was wrong.” It was a sign of Gibbs’ physical and mental state when he threw the keys to Ziva. “You’re driving.”

NCIS arrived in Arlington in record time. Gibbs was in a rotten mood and they were all worried though trying to stay professional. “Whatever happened, Tony can take care of himself,” Ziva tried to reassure them, but the words came out empty, as if even she did not believe them.

McGee interviewed Tony’s boss, a man named Lewis Billingsley. “It was near the beginning of the day. Terry was checking out a hockey player from the Alexandria Assassins, this little hockey team that uses the ice once or twice a month. I didn’t see the guy leave, but I figured he must have because his jacket, wallet, and keys were gone when I checked his cubicle at the end of the day. Then this morning I found a leave form in my mailbox at work. On it, Terry said he wasn’t feeling well and was taking off the rest of the week because he was ill.”

“So you didn’t see Terry leave?”

Mr. Billingsley shook his head.

“Did you see the player he was fixing up leave?”

The man thought about it for a moment, and then shook his head. “No, I was called out to consult about a player who’s had a few concussions. We take brain injuries very seriously around here.”

“And how seriously do you take abductions?”

McGee turned to see Gibbs striding over with a determined look in his eyes that made McGee even more uneasy.

“Ab… ductions?” Mr. Billingsley sputtered.

“Agent David is pulling the tape for the locker room feed right now, but we found this shoved under a bench.” It was a clipboard with a patient’s chart on it. Tony’s messy handwriting was instantly recognizable, even if some of the medical terms written on it were not. At the bottom of the page, in the section marked TREATMENT, Tony had written about icing a shoulder and taking over-the-counter painkillers. Then came a sentence about following up in a week. But the sentence had no ending, apart from a pen mark that began halfway through the word “bruise” and fell off the right side of the page.

“I didn’t even check to see if he’d filed his paperwork before I left last night.” Mr. Billingsley swallowed, his Adam’s apple rising and falling guiltily.

If that pen mark had been a snowflake, the NCIS team found itself in the middle of a blizzard by the end of the hour. The security video showed a man in a ski mask and black jumpsuit entering the locker room about twenty minutes after Tony and the hockey player had gone in. About a minute later, the camera went to static and, when it resumed monitoring, the locker room was deserted. The security crew watching the monitors admitted that for privacy reasons, the locker rooms had cameras that weren’t monitored by staff, so no one had noticed the incident. They contacted the hockey player’s family and found out that the man, Oliver Marcus, had not come home. His wife had thought he’d just been out with buddies after the practice and had been in the midst of calling everyone on the team to track him down when NCIS contacted her; she hadn’t even had time to file a missing persons report.

“McGee, get that video back to Abby. I want you to examine that leave form from Terry that was left in Mr. Billingsley’s mailbox. Ziva, examine every inch of this place, top to bottom. If someone in a ski cap can get in, fake a disappearance, and get two grown men out of here without being seen in the process, there probably won’t be many clues. But if we figure out how he did it, we might get a lead on the kind of people we’re dealing with here. And I’ll go check out his apartment.”

Terry’s apartment looked a lot like Tony’s bachelor pad had looked… only a hell of a lot cleaner. There didn’t seem to be any clues left there about where Tony might have been taken or who might have taken him. But one thing was clear: the place had been searched recently. If Gibbs hadn’t known what he was looking for, he might have missed the signs. But he knew Tony would never leave a DVD out on the coffee table, out of its protective case to collect dust. He knew Tony kept the ice cream on the right side of the freezer. And he knew Tony never used the mouse of his computer on his mouse pad, preferring to let it glide free on the surface of his desk instead.

“Tony,” he whispered, looking at a framed photo of Tony that sat on an almost empty bookcase. “You were supposed to be there to keep a kidnapping from happening, not to get kidnapped yourself. What the hell happened yesterday?”

The Tony in the photo did not answer, even when Gibbs reached out and lightly tapped the upper back portion of the photo, right where the back of Tony’s head would have been.

 

*

 

Trey painted a picture of a house. It was a beautiful house—white with a lovely front porch. There weren’t any flowers in the yard, but the grass was mowed neat and the bushes well trimmed. The sky behind the house, however, was overcast, and little blue and white streaks of rain pelted the image at an angle. The instructor told him he had done an excellent job of making it feel like a real place. Trey beamed as brightly as the lamp in the living room window of his house.

At lunch, they were serving chicken salad sandwiches, and Trey had to hold up the short line in order to ask for his without tomatoes. “They make the bread kind of soggy,” he tried to explain to his new friend, Octavius.

Octavius nodded in understanding but wolfed his own sandwich down, tomatoes and all. He was a big man—taller than Trey, broad shoulders, beefy with muscles. He ate his sandwich and then went back for a second one before they closed the cafeteria line.

After lunch, they had exercise time. Before they went into the locker rooms, Octavius was asked if he would like a massage instead, because his shoulder had been hurt. This seemed to be the first time he’d realized this. He pushed up his sleeve, but couldn’t get the fabric up far enough. So he pulled it off. Both he and Trey stared at the yellow-green bruise encompassing his upper arm. “I don’t remember how I got this,” Octavius said, sounding perplexed.

The men in black jumpsuits told him it would be better in a few days and a massage would really help. “That sounds relaxing,” Octavius agreed.

“I could use one of those, too!” Trey spoke up, grinning like a mischievous little kid who wants an early Christmas present.

“You’ll be fine in exercise class,” one of them told him, ushering him into the locker room. Trey tried not to feel jealous. He really did want a massage, but he enjoyed doing his best in the workout.

In the afternoon, he chose a book and stretched out on a couch to read. A beautiful redhead sat down beside him with a book of her own. “Hello,” she said, smiling. “I’m Dixie.”

“Hi, Dixie.” He looked up from his book to return her smile and his gaze went beyond her to the various Halloween decorations. He zeroed in on a black spider web. After staring at it for a good few minutes straight, he reached out and pulled it off of the potted plant. It came off in wisps, tangling ‘round his fingers. He stared at it a moment, and then stretched his arm out and pressed it to Dixie’s neck. She gave a start then relaxed. “What’s that for?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He stared at the spider web stuck to the side of her neck, for a minute before pulling it back off. “Sorry.”

She laughed and shook her head. “You’re a little strange, Trey, but I like you.”

He didn’t get much reading done after that, just staring at the decorations. His eyes kept going back to those spider webs.

Trey was still thinking about them during dinner and when he was in the shower after dinner. He lay down in his bed at the end of the night and pulled the covers up to his neck. They slept in beds built into the walls with doors that slid shut. It reminded him of beds he’d slept in somewhere else… bunks some place cozy and… moving? Could that be right?

He closed his eyes and allowed the blankness to envelop him entirely.

 

*

 

Gibbs popped a painkiller into his mouth and swallowed it down with coffee so hot it was nearly scalding. This sort of case was what Anthony DiNozzo was good at. Tony saw little details that others tended to miss. Tony asked questions that no one else would think to ask. Tony made leaps in logic that, though usually wrong, sometimes resulted in answers no one else was able to get. If Tony were here, he would have found himself in a minute.

As it was, Gibbs didn’t have a clue where to go with the little they had to actually go on.

“No prints at all. It’s not that the place has been wiped, either. These guys wore gloves, even when using keypads and operating Tony’s computer.”

“His computer?”

“The one in his cubicle at the Iceplex. Someone logged in with his username and password. They checked his e-mail and his browsing history, which didn’t have much because he’d only been there a couple days. They used the printer on this floor to print out his leave notice.”

“Would they have printed it blank or filled out?”

“No way to tell. The size of the data stream sent to the printer isn’t in the buffer any more. But the handwriting is a perfect replica of Tony’s,” Abby told him. One of her computers showed a split-screen with a sample of Tony’s handwriting on the left and the leave notice on the right. Little red circles were drawn over loops and strokes. “This is the most advanced handwriting analysis program you can get out of beta today, Gibbs. It looks at the weights and slants. It analyzes the speed of writing words and specific letters. It calculates the probability of a human hand naturally generating it. And the program says that it’s Tony’s handwriting. But it also says every word of this was written with the same consistent speed.”

As if his head didn’t hurt already, Gibbs tried not to pinch the bridge of his nose. “What does that mean, Abs?”

“It means Tony didn’t write this, but whoever did has better technology than we do. It would take a week to generate this sort of note and make it look random and natural. But it was made in probably about twenty seconds. There’s no way they could have had a sample of Tony’s handwriting until a few days ago when he started work there. This is amazing.”

Gibbs nodded. Amazing didn’t get him any closer to finding Tony. He handed a Caf-Pow to Abby as a thank you and headed for the elevator.

“Hey, Gibbs?”

He turned, walking backwards, but listening to her. “After we figure out who took Tony and you bring them down in the most painful way possible, can you give me access to their equipment? Even just a fraction of this tech would let us do things I can only dream about.”

He chuckled and stepped into the elevator.

“Gibbs!”

Gibbs stuck his hand out to keep the doors from closing completely. They opened to reveal Abby shuffling along in shoes with soles about two inches high. She threw her arms around him, her ponytails swinging. “You’re going to find him. Wherever he is, he knows you’re looking for him.”

“Right, Abs.” He squeezed her back, for her sake more than his, and she stepped back out of the elevator to let Gibbs go.

After the death metal music blasting with a thumping beat in Abby’s lab, the silence of the elevator was unsettling. It made his head spin. He didn’t just need Tony; he wanted Tony. If he could slap the back of his head right now and put this whole thing right, he would have. Rule Twelve existed for a reason: never date a coworker. He shouldn’t be involved with Tony. And then there was Rule Ten: never get personally involved on a case. He shouldn’t be working a case that involved Tony. He shouldn’t… but he was. He was in love. He was worried. He was angry. And he couldn’t just hand the case off to some other NCIS team. But he couldn’t let the rest of his team know how emotional he was. Though, being good at their jobs and knowing the two parties involved, they could probably guess. Hell, they were probably just as worried about Tony.

Ziva looked up as soon as soon as Gibbs entered. She frowned and snatched a DVD from her desk. “McGee and I are going through all the security camera footage. These guys have some way to cut the visuals in five minute bursts.”

So the kidnappers had access to good technology. NCIS had definitely established that.

“And they are good, Gibbs. They move smoothly like they have been trained by someone who knew exactly how to run this kind of operation.”

McGee, who had been on the phone, hung up. “The parking attendants don’t remember anything out of the ordinary, but they’re sending their footage to us. I think we can assume whoever did this didn’t smuggle two grown men out through the maze of hallways and out on the Metro.”

“Rule Number Eight,” Gibbs growled, taking the DVD from Ziva and then taking a seat at his desk.

He fumbled with the disc for a few seconds, putting it in the CD drive instead of the DVD player, and then putting it in upside down. Just as he was about to swear, McGee was there to put it right and bring up the software to run it. He mumbled a thank you and set to work looking for something— _anything—_ that would give him a clue.

Gibbs was snapped out of the brutally boring work when McGee stood in front of him. His agent looked both excited and defeated; he had the look in his eyes like a hurt little puppy dog. “Ummmm, I think I’ve got something, Boss. It’s a black van, and the plates look fake.”

“Show me.”

McGee tapped his keyboard and a few keystrokes brought it up on the big monitor. “It’s the biggest vehicle to go in or out during the time when the abduction took place. It could easily fit and hide the bodies of two unconscious guys.”

Gibbs wanted to cite Rule Number Eight again: never take anything for granted. An SUV would have been big enough. Hell, a small compact car would probably have been big enough if they had crammed the bodies into the trunk. “How do you know—”

“All the windows are tinted, but the windshield isn’t too bad and one camera happened to catch this. Take a look…” He pressed the spacebar on his keyboard and the video began playback.

A van drove through the garage and toward the camera, hitting a curved section that would take them spiraling down to the lower levels where the exits were. As they hit the curve, an image of the driver could be seen. He wore sunglasses, even though he was driving inside a dark parking garage. He wore a light gray trench coat over something black. More important than the driver was a guy just barely visible in the back of the truck, just behind the driver. He was nearly hidden by the front seats, but he was definitely wearing a black jumpsuit and was pulling a ski mask off his head.

“Go back! Can you make it bigger?”

McGee did. But even when zooming in and having the computer reconstruct the image from the raw pixels, it wasn’t enough to see anything of use. The resolution just wasn’t high enough for that. The car took the turn just before the mask was halfway off; they didn’t even have a hair color to go on. But these were without a doubt their guys, the guys who had taken Tony and that hockey player.

 “I’ll put out an all agencies BOLO for the plates and for any black van with this make or model. It’s also got four antennas.” McGee froze the video at a point and pointed out the antennas, one at a time. “I guarantee that’s not a factory standard.”

“Good work, McGee.”

The worried, hurt puppy look was briefly replaced with a hint of pride. But not so much reassurance. It wasn’t much to go on, after all.

“Keep looking.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Good day. My name is Carson. How are you feeling, Jack?” 

Jack stretched, yawned, and leisurely rose from the white chair. “Ready to go track down some ducks. Where’s my gear?”

Carson gestured toward the door. “I’ll take you to it.” 

An hour later, Jack sat bundled up in a duck blind with a couple that had hired him to take them hunting this weekend as part of a regional competition. They’d brought their own dog, a chocolate Chesapeake Bay Retriever by the name of Hershey. It was clear from the start that Jack had more in common with Hershey than he had with the humans. They had never even picked up guns before, though they had some of the most expensive hunting rifles money could but these days. The couple treated them like toys, not tools. And the couple was more interested in snuggling and looking like professional hunters than actually hunting anything. 

Jack had spent a full hour teaching them how to handle a gun safely, and they had seemed bored out of their minds. He kept reminding them that they had hired him. He’d never had less excited clients in all his thirty-eight years taking people out to the rivers. They were bad at shooting. They were bad at keeping quiet. They were bad at duck calls. They were bad at telling the difference between a duck and a sparrow. The only thing they were remotely good at was getting on his nerves. 

Wading into the river, the water coming almost to the top of his wellies, he released the expensive duck decoy the couple had brought along. “What happens now?” the man called out from the riverbank.

Wincing, Jack pressed his finger to his mouth, finger lingering a moment too long against his lips. He waded back to the blind, covering the back end with the camouflage cloth with leaves sewn into it to blend in with the rest of the trees, shrubs, and the wetland plants surrounding the riverbank. “Remember how I said not to make any noise?” 

The man shrugged and the woman looked down her nose at him. “You’re talking right now, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

If he hadn’t been paid to be here, he would have bailed hours back. They’d been there since dawn and the only ducks they’d bagged were ones Jack had shot, which technically didn’t count in the contest, no matter how much money the couple was throwing at it. He’d shot the first one as a demonstration, watching the beautiful woodie nosedive in a spiral right into the river. Hershey had been after it without having to be told and came trotting back with the dead duck held gently in its mouth. He deposited it at their feet, beaming with pride. As Jack went to pet his head in appreciation, the dog shook the water off him, and the woman had squealed with surprise and annoyance. Then she proceeded to complain about the wet dog smell for the rest of the morning. 

The second duck had been an accident. He’d been trying to show the man how to position a rifle through the little slot in the blind in order to have a good range of movement to catch ducks as they flew. However, the man seemed entirely unable to grasp the concept so Jack stuck his own rifle in just as a flock of Canadian geese took off from across the river. It was just instinct to shoot and, of course, he hit one of them. Again, Hershey bounded from the blind and retrieved the spoils, just as undeniable instinct had demanded. 

The successes only made the couple more impatient. They could see how it was done, but they couldn’t actually manage to do it themselves. Each rifle contained a magazine of exactly three shots. That was one shot more than what Jack usually needed and, apparently, seventeen shots fewer than what the couple needed. The woman would just whine when she missed a shot and the man swore and kept firing, even though the magazine was empty and no bullets would come forth. The repetitive and utterly useless clicking of the trigger set Jack’s teeth on edge. And of course reloading was out of the question because no one had found a way to make ducks sit still for the time it took to reload. 

Jack took out the whistle. “Now that the decoy is in place, we use the whistle to get the attention of any ducks nearby. The hope is that they’ll see that this is a great place to be and you’ll get a choice of targets.” He waited until it was quiet, just the sound of the water and maybe a bird chirping far back in the forest. Then he made a call like a mallard. He waited a minute, and then he duplicated the call. 

“Do it again. They might not have heard!” the man insisted. 

Jack winced. “Stay quiet and concentrate on the area around the decoy.” 

The woman bounced up and down and reached for the whistle, flexing her fingers at it. “You must not have done it right. Let me have a try!”

But they didn’t have to make another call. The birds trickled in a few at a time, but soon a dozen ducks were on the water not far from them. Jack made sure Hershey was down and quiet; he didn’t want anything to frighten the ducks away now. If his clients couldn’t shoot ducks that were sitting still, just bobbing in the river in front of them, there was no hope at all for them. 

The man loaded his duck rifle. The man took aim. And the man pulled the trigger three times. The first one made Jack freeze. 

The second sent his heart racing and his body shaking. 

And the third made him duck down and throw his arms over his head. 

It was an instinctual reaction… but he couldn’t figure out what instinct had controlled him. He’d been on this river for almost his entire life; he’d practically been born with a rifle in his hand. But those three shots had come as thought they’d been shot right at him. 

The next thing he knew, Carson was there in the blind, asking if he wanted to have a treatment. And Jack had never been so happy to see the man with those kind blue eyes and salt and pepper hair.

*

Gibbs, head bent over a files at his desk, ran a hand through his hair. McGee typed away at his keyboard. Ziva tapped her pen on her desk. It had been three long days of chasing leads that went nowhere.

Ziva put down her pen. “So the question remains: why were there two botched attempts first? If these people are this good at this kind of thing and this well equipped with so much technology at their disposal, they should not have been noticed at all, let alone unsuccessful twice.”

McGee, who had been quiet all morning, spoke up at that. “Unless their objectives changed.” 

Gibbs raised his head. That was a thought, wasn’t it? 

“They attacked the hockey player last week and the one the week before. Maybe they hadn’t meant to abduct them then. Maybe they were there for some other reason.”

“Why would anyone want to attack a hockey player?” 

McGee shrugged. “I don’t know, but if I wanted to attack a hockey player, I’d go to a place like the Iceplex to find one. And it’s probably no coincidence that the attacks took place on days when the Capitals weren’t there or when the Capitals’ practice was over and security was much more relaxed, don’t you think?” 

She nodded slowly, thinking. “I still cannot fathom why anyone would want to attack a hockey player.”

“Maybe they were trying to injure a player so that the other team had a better shot at winning?”

That seemed somewhat unlikely. The two players who had been targeted had been amazing players, this was true. In fact, they had both seemed to be some of the best players on their respective teams. However, teams had so many players, including some fantastic backups.

Ziva’s thoughts seemed in tune with Gibbs’ though, trying to make this theory work. “Could someone be running an underground betting ring?”

Shaking his head, McGee answered, “Who would bother doing a betting ring for players at such low levels? One wasn’t even playing on a league team.”

Gibbs cleared his throat. “What if it the attacks weren’t done to hurt a player but to get something from a player?”

The two agents looked at their boss, considering this with seriousness. “Like what?” McGee asked.

Gibbs didn’t know. None of them knew. But at least they were somewhere other than hitting dead ends repeatedly. “Whatever it is, they didn’t get it the first time or they wouldn’t have tried again. And, if this theory is correct, they didn’t get it the second time either.”

Nodding, Ziva added. “And maybe they realized they couldn’t get it that way, so they resorted to kidnapping.”

But why Tony? Was he in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or had he found out something he shouldn’t have? 

“Ziva, I want you to go talk to the coaches of the teams. Maybe they’re something we overlooked there. Talk to some players, too. Let’s see what these guys might have known. And McGee, keep looking for connections among all these teams. They could have been chosen at random because of low security, but if they weren’t, some connection might lead us to the people responsible.”

*

He was so groggy and dizzy when he woke that he felt sick to his stomach for a few moments. He closed his eyes, willing it to stop. When he opened them, he felt better, though there was still a pretty bad pounding in his head. He realized he was sitting in a chair in a charcoal gray room, and he wasn’t alone. 

A woman in a black jumpsuit appeared, having walked around from the right. “Good morning, Trey. I hope you’re feeling better?” 

He considered how to answer. He felt the need to tell her the truth—that his head hurt considerably. But, for some reason, he didn’t want to. His mouth just wouldn’t form the words. “Much better, thanks. Though I could use a coffee.”

Her smile was sweet, but he suddenly noticed it didn’t extend to her eyes. Her smile was so warm, like a doctor’s reassuring smile was supposed to be, but her hazel eyes were still cold and evaluative. It was as though she could look into him and see that his head hurt. If she could see it, however, she didn’t say anything about it. Instead, she said, “Oh, I think that can be arranged.” Then she escorted him out of the chair and out of the room, into the well-lit hallway toward the cafeteria. 

“My head hurts,” Trey whispered to Octavius and Dixie over lunch.

“Did you not sleep well?” Dixie asked. 

He shrugged. “I don’t remember not sleeping well. I don’t remember much of anything, actually.”

“You weren’t at breakfast this morning,” Octavius told him. “I think you were having a treatment. Sometimes those take some time. But they help us to be our best.”

Trey nodded. “Yes, they do.” 

Of course, he couldn’t remember having a treatment either. He remembered being in that white chair in that gray room, remembered the intensity of that headache, and that was all. A treatment had never given him a headache before. “Maybe I’m coming down with something?”

Dixie reached over and pressed a cool hand to his forehead. “You don’t feel especially hot.” 

“Trey?” All three of them turned to see a man in sunglasses standing beside their table. “Are you feeling all right?”

Trey nodded. “Of course. I only have a small headache.”

“You’d better go see the doctor. I’m sure she can give you something for it.”

He nodded. “I want to be my best.” Obediently, he left his nearly untouched meal and headed back to the gray room. 

The Doctor had her back to him when he walked in. Her hair was done in braids, trailing down her back. Trey cleared his throat to announce his presence. She spun around, startled to see him. “Trey. Hello.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s the matter?”

“I have a small headache. I was told I should see you?”

“Absolutely. Hop back into the chair for a moment for me.” She checked his eyes and ears and took his temperature. Once she determined he was fine, she gave him two small tablets and a paper cup of water to wash them down with. “Please come back and see me if your headache doesn’t go away or if it comes back. You shouldn’t have to suffer from a headache.”

He grinned and jumped down. “Thanks, Duck.” He started to head out, but she called back to him.

“Trey, what did you just call me?”

Turning, he rubbed his hand across his throbbing forehead. His head started to spin the way it did after his treatments. “What did I…? Doc. I called you Doc, right?” Pain seized his temples and he closed his eyes, trying to block the pain out when that just made him more aware of it. Doc. The image of a medical diagram floated through his head, with parts circled and messy handwriting scribbling diagnoses. Was that really what he’d said? The pain in his head intensified, blinding him. He doubled over, clutching his head. He heard gunshots. He heard duck calls. There was the sound of wings and water. There was the image of metal drawers and metal tables with lights above them. White coats. Medical tools. Dead bodies. He cried out and fought against hands trying to grab at him. 

The next thing Trey knew, his head was spinning a little. He opened his eyes and discovered he was back in the white chair. 

The doctor was there still, walking around. “Good morning, Trey. I hope you’re feeling better?”

He nodded immediately. He felt perfect, in fact. “Much better, thanks. Though I could use a coffee.”

She smiled at him. “Oh, I think that can be arranged.” She helped him up and kept hold of his upper arm. “Trey, does your head hurt?”

He considered the question, evaluating. “No, not at all. Why, should it?”

She shook her head. “No. But come back here if it starts to hurt again. All right?”

Trey agreed obediently and left to go get some breakfast.


	6. Chapter 6

“Good day. My name is Carson. Are you feeling all right, Simon?”

Simon stood up from the white chair and nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Carson. I’m just fine, thank you for asking. Do you know where Benjamin is?”

“I’ll take you to him.” Carson put him into a black van and drove him to a restaurant. Simon bounced expectantly in his seat and rushed from the van the second he was able. He threw himself into Benjamin’s arms before the dark-haired Benjamin was able to slide off his stool and hand him a rose. 

Dinner was a long and decadent affair. They split a bottle of $800 wine during a four-course meal. They devoured two Death By Chocolate desserts. And by the time Benjamin drove them home, Simon was so blissed out he barely felt anything as Benjamin laid him back upon their king-sized bed, covered in rose petals. “I love you, Simon.” Benjamin whispered. “I miss you when we’re not together.” 

“When are we not together?” Simon asked, laughing. “We have the rest of our lives to spend together. That’s what getting married is all about.” 

Benjamin grinned. “I’m so glad you’re such a romantic this time.”

“This time?” Simon cocked his head and loosened his tie.

“Never mind about that.” Benjamin moved in for a kiss, his hand on Simon’s hip. “Just relax and enjoy.” Benjamin slipped the silk tie off over Simon’s head and kissed him again. 

“Oh, I’ll do that.” Simon closed his eyes and savored the sensations. The kissing. The touching. The panting. The frotting. Soon there was a wet spot on his black slacks and both their pants were wrinkled beyond all definitions of decency. The only kind thing to do to them at that point was to take them off for laundering later. 

Simon started to unbutton his shirt, but Benjamin stopped him. “Leave the shirt on, sexy. But you can lose the shorts, if you want.”

Simon wanted. He stripped those off, tossing them in Benjamin’s face. Benjamin buried his nose in them and took a deep, long inhalation. He lowered the shorts and Simon could see that wild, passionate look in his eyes.

From then on, they did not talk. They kissed. They touched. They panted. They made love. Simon wrapped his mouth around Benjamin’s dick and sucked until Benjamin pulled away with a warning. Neither of them wanted this to be over too soon. 

Simon slid his hands beneath Benjamin’s shirt and undershirt, fingertips grazing the nubs of his nipples. Benjamin always loved that. This time, he purred and rocked a bit. After another hungry kiss, he bit down on the man’s earlobe, then his neck. He might have liked it romantic, but Simon also liked it rough. In reality, he liked it whatever way Benjamin wanted to give it. 

Benjamin forced Simon over, face down on the bed. He spread Simon, lubed him, and slid in with a deep groan. It was as if Benjamin hadn’t done this in months, but this was how it felt every time with Simon. He rocked again, this time thrusting in and out with a rhythm that increased in speed and urgency each time. 

Soon, Simon was crying out, but not coming yet because he hadn’t been given permission to do so. Benjamin came with a moan, and gasped into Simon’s ear that he was allowed. 

Simon came into the high-count bed sheets. After a few moments, Benjamin began kissing him all over again. The fun for the night was just beginning. 

It didn’t end until noon the next day when Carson invited himself in and told Simon it was time for a treatment.

*

Staring at videos for two days straight was a surefire way to make Leroy Jethro Gibbs insane. Clues were analyzed, leads were followed, people were interviewed, and it all led to dead end after dead end. 

These guys were professionals, but there wasn’t enough footage for Ziva to get a good feel for their styles. They could be from any agency or branch. They could be privately hired mercenaries or an independent force grown over the years. Gibbs had Ziva exploring the various options and keeping her ear out for news of places that might be recruiting. It couldn’t be a small operation if it was able to handle two captives like Tony and a hockey player with such efficiency. 

He had McGee following up on the van angle, going on wild goose chases after every single black van in the D.C. Metro area. After a few didn’t work out, Gibbs developed an admittedly irrational fear that when McGee left on a lead, he wouldn’t come back. He insisted he take Ziva with him from then on. 

Which left Gibbs relatively alone at work. The rest of the floor was buzzing like normal with other cases. Tony was missing and the whole world went on without him, just like what happened after Shannon and Kelly were killed. But Gibbs hadn’t given up then and he wasn’t about to give up on Tony now.

*

“Good day. My name is Carson. Are you feeling all right, James?”

James shook his head. “I don’t have the ring. Oh my God. Fred’s going to murder me if I don’t have the ring!” 

“Check your pocket.” 

James checked and frowned. “It’s not there!”

“Your breast pocket. Inside the tux jacket.”

James checked and smiled. 

“Guess he won’t kill you after all.”

A shrug. “Not because of the ring, at least. However, if I’m late to his wedding rehearsal…”

Carter offered his hand, smiling. James took it and hopped down out of the chair. “I’d better get you there on time, then, James.” 

They sat in a black van, driving to Ocean City, Maryland. The driver seemed to know all the best routes for avoiding the traffic that was all too prevalent in the D.C. Metropolitan area. Still, the trip took some time. And James seemed fond of making small talk. “Fred and I met our freshmen year in college. We were going after the same girl, a blonde bombshell named Carrie. He won her attention, of course, but after he went out with her, he practically gave her to me. It didn’t take me long to try my hand with her. Turns out, she was the dumbest bimbo on the block. Gorgeous but nothing upstairs, you know? 

“Given that we enjoyed the same taste in women, we decided we’d make good friends. Ten years later, we’re still great friends. Do you have a friend like the one I have, Carson?”

“I suppose not.” 

“I still can’t believe he’s getting married. But this one’s not a bimbo. She’s good for him and he’s good for her. It’s so rare to find that perfect person for you, isn’t it?” James sat back and caught sight of himself in the rear view mirror. He ran his hand through his hair, smiling broadly. “Hey, I look pretty good in a tux, don’t I?”

Carson chuckled. His blue eyes sparkled, and James felt like he could trust anything the man said. Suddenly he needed the approval. And he got it. “This is the best I’ve ever seen you look.”

*

“Black van spotted heading east on 50 this morning,” McGee said. His eyes looked tired from staring at so many report printouts and blurry traffic camera video feeds, but he hadn’t complained once. He didn’t sound entirely optimistic, however. This was the twentieth black van in the past hour. “But this one… there’s something weird about its plates.”

Gibbs knew enough not to get his hopes up either. 

A few minutes later, McGee let out a whoop of joy that would have made any of his online elven subjects proud of their lord and master. “This is the one, Gibbs!” Gibbs raced over, and McGee zoomed in. The letters on the license plate couldn’t really be made out, but they didn’t have to be. “Tony was kidnapped on an overcast, rainy day. Look at how the headlights of the other cars hit the van’s license plate. They don’t reflect off the right way, which means it’s made out of something different than normal license plates. Maybe plastic, maybe paper. I can’t be sure. But look at the license plate on this van from this morning.” 

They both watched the video McGee brought up. McGee was right; it reflected the same way. “Where’s the van now?” 

“I’m tracking it on traffic cameras, but due to the weather and rush hour traffic, it’s hard to keep tabs on its movements. The driver seems to know the right exits to take to bypass the traffic jams. Maybe he’s got satellite navigation with real-time traffic.” 

“With the amount of techno gadgets these people have, I wouldn’t be surprised.” 

“I’ll keep looking, but it was hours ago. Probably the closest I’m going to get is to catch the van if it comes back our way again. I’ll be able to monitor all these roads and get an alert if it’s sighted again.”

Gibbs nodded. Driving around aimlessly in the hope of finding the van didn’t seem like a good idea. “All right, but I want you ready to go the second you find something. And have Ziva drive.”

McGee chuckled.

*

Arthur winced as the whip struck his rear again. The woman at the other end was an expert—perhaps not professional, but experienced enough to have excellent technique. She struck him again at a different angle and in a slightly different spot. Nine hits now and each one just a little different so that no part of his ass hurt more than any other. She was careful not to hit too high as to strike his tailbone, for which he—and his ass—were grateful. 

He loved the way she hit him. He loved the feeling of the ball in his mouth. He loved the way she made him feel. Arthur turned his head as the whip cracked and hit again. He could see his reflection in the mirror on the ceiling. He looked damn good like this, all spread out, submissive and relaxed, his rear end rosy. 

He barely hurt by the time it was over. He lay, broken and spent, on the black satin sheets. He felt a hand on his back and he jumped at the unexpected touch. Forcing his eyes open, Arthur saw a man standing in front of him. He couldn’t remember the man’s name, but he knew he knew him. 

“I think it’s time for you to have a treatment.”

Arthur blinked, confused, not sure he really wanted a treatment now. He couldn’t quite remember how to speak or how to make sounds without that ball gag in his mouth. His jaw hurt whenever he thought about moving it. It was much easier to just lie there, all blissed out and relaxed.

Bu the man did not go away. “You know me, right? And you trust me?” 

Arthur blinked again, this time with an infinitesimally small nod. 

“Then let me help you up and I’ll get you back for a treatment.” 

Another tiny nod of approval at the man with big blue eyes and salt and pepper hair made Arthur feel even warmer and sure of himself. He couldn’t remember ever trusting anyone more. 

He passed out as soon as the man tried to help him up. 

When he opened his eyes, he saw a charcoal gray ceiling, a ceiling fan, and a light fixture above him. Every bit of his body tingled and he considered just lying there, pretending he wasn’t conscious yet, until he fell back to sleep. 

But a monitor behind him beeped, indicating he was alert again. 

“Good morning, Trey. I hope you’re feeling better?” 

He opened his eyes and saw a woman standing beside him. He still tingled and suddenly he realized the pain he was in. His body hurt all over. But, mostly, his head hurt. There was throbbing pain, especially as he tried to figure out why he was hurting. First there had been Octavius’ shoulder he couldn’t remember injuring, and now Trey had some pain of his own. Trey didn’t know what was going on and he didn’t have any clues to work with. But Trey wanted to figure it out. It was like his own, private mystery investigation. He couldn’t investigate if the doctor made the pain go away. “Much better, thanks.” But something warm to drink that would wake him up and make him alert enough to investigate. “Though I could use a coffee.”

For some reason, she looked relieved when she answered, “Oh, I think that can be arranged.” 

Trey lay on his stomach on one of the couches, a coffee cup in one hand and a book open in front of him, kept open using his other hand. He’d inspected his body in the bathroom mirror. And he’d let Octavius and Dixie see as well. They talked through their observations—the marks, the bruised spots, the scratches. They didn’t seem consistent upon his body. Most were on his bottom or his legs. They looked deliberately applied. However, Trey couldn’t remember who or what had caused them and his friends had no suggestions to offer.


	7. Chapter 7

Every day for Gibbs’ team at NCIS headquarters was spent with the shared motto: “keep looking and eventually we’ll find something.”

They checked every second of the surveillance videos. They interviewed every person who worked at the Iceplex. They talked to every member of the teams that had one of their players either attacked or kidnapped. They met with family and neighbors and friends. They read through e-mails. They responded to every sighting of a black van. They listened to voice mails. They scoured every inch of the Iceplex and the garage. And they came up with nothing new.

After a week and a half, Vance called Gibbs into his office and Gibbs, not in the best of moods, stormed up the stairs to his office. “I’m not giving up on Tony,” Gibbs stated outright, standing instead of sitting in front of the NCIS director’s desk. Vance had never been the biggest fan of Tony, but Gibbs was in no mood to be talked out of this case. “My agent is still out there and still counting on us to find him.”

Vance rolled a toothpick from the corner of his mouth to the center, then plucked it out and held it between his fingers. He stared at it, then looked past it at Gibbs. “I’m well aware of that. I wasn’t asking you up here to tell you to give up on him.”

Gibbs didn’t reply. He just stood and waited to be told the reason he had been asked to be there.

“I need your team on another case temporarily.”

“No.”

“Hear me out, Gibbs.”

Gibbs shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. We’re not setting this case aside for something else.”

“What if it’s not coming from me?”

Instead of blowing up or punching a hole in the director’s desk, Gibbs paused a moment to consider this. “Who’s saying it? Is it a member of my team?” Had they just been humoring him? Had they given up already and hadn’t wanted to tell him?

“It’s SecNav, Gibbs. His son is missing and he wants the best out looking for him.”

Gibbs hadn’t expected that. And he wasn’t sure what to say about it.

Vance stuck the toothpick back in his mouth and sat back in his chair, which gave a little as he leaned back. “Are you the best, Gibbs? Is your head in this? ‘Cause I can’t use you if you and your team are hung up on this hockey case and your missing agent.”

Gibbs leaned forward, palms flat upon Vance’s desk. There was a time he would have given Vance hell for referring to Tony as just another missing agent. But the faster he dealt with this, the sooner he could get back on track finding Tony. “Give me the details, Leon.”

Fifteen minutes later, Gibbs was running through the details with McGee and Ziva. They took it all in, asking few questions until he was done. “Boss?” McGee asked tentatively. “About Tony…”

“We’re not giving up. We’re still working our case. We just need to work this one as well. SecNav’s pulling out all the stops right now. Let’s get this kid found so we can go back to searching for some clue. Is that clear?”

“Diamond,” Ziva replied.  
  
“Crystal,” McGee whispered the correction.

“Diamonds are clear as well, and harder,” Ziva pointed out and Tony wasn’t there to offer a witty comeback. 

“Grab your gear. We’re going now.”

It took forty-five minutes to get to the particular site in Manassas, not far from the historic battlefields and the tourists. SecNav’s son was a Civil War re-enactor who’d gone missing some time after the most recent practice. The actors weren’t in garb now, just plain jackets and jeans. Even so, it was easy to tell who was a re-enactor and who was law enforcement, because everyone else was in suits or uniforms. Practically every agency Gibbs could think of was on the scene. Gibbs scanned the crowd for the person in charge of the operation.

 

*

 

“Good day. I’m Carson. Are you feeling all right, William?”

William looked at his surroundings, evaluating, calculating. “Where am I?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Carson said, stepping back so that William could get up from the white chair. “Are you ready to go?”

William checked his outfit, thrusting gloved hands into the pockets of his warm jacket and finding a knit hat waiting for him, should he need it. There was a clipboard and a stack of folders waiting for him on a table, and he scooped those up. “Now, I am. I’ll familiarize myself with the case on the way.”

It took about half an hour to get to the site. Only a couple of cop cars were there, with officers attempting to keep the re-enactors from leaving before their statements could be taken. William got out, leaving the devoured files behind but taking a pen and his clipboard. He borrowed a cop’s megaphone and then borrowed a cop’s car. He climbed right up onto the hood and then onto the top of the car. He sat down, legs dangling casually as if this were how most people rode a car. He tapped the button on the microphone. “Everyone, gather ‘round and listen up. I don’t like repeating myself, so this is your chance to shut up and let me talk.”

A few bunches of cops came over, and the rest of the people—officers and re-enactors alike—trickled in as William began. “Good. You can take orders. I like you guys already. My name is William Leverson. I’m a trained investigator specializing in missing persons. I’ve found more than four hundred and sixty missing people over the years, many in situations not much different from this one.

“The reason we’re all here is a fifteen-year-old boy named Winston and our mission is to find him. I think we can all agree on that. And as long as we can agree on that, we’ve got some common ground. Now, whether or not he ran away or was abducted or is lost is something for authorities to figure out when he’s found. The important thing is just to find him. The quicker we can do that, the better off he’ll be. Time is our only enemy.”

William lifted his clipboard and tapped the end of the megaphone against it. “I’ve got a grid here. We’re going to start with where he was last seen and work our way out. See me for your assignments.” He sent them out in groups of ten with five groups to a block. Most of the grounds in the fields could be covered quickly, but the dense woods would take more time. There were ditches to lie in, trees to climb, foliage to cover with, and rundown buildings to take shelter in. Someone on foot wasn’t going to make it very far, but if you got far enough, you hit roads and more parking lots.

Before William had even begun sending out the first groups, the FBI arrived on the scene. It was normal for an agent or two to show up on the scene of a suspected kidnapping, especially the kidnapping of the son of someone notable in the government. But they didn’t show up with just a couple of agents. Two vans arrived on the scene, followed by a half dozen cars. The parking lot was quickly filling. Someone was pulling out all the stops on this one.

William was still sitting atop the squad car and still giving out assigned start locations when an FBI agent walked through the crowd, right up to him. “Where’s that bastard Gibbs who called me?”

William narrowed his eyes. The man was older, short, and a bit bald. But he looked tough and experienced, and those were two things William could use on this search. He also seemed to know what he was talking about, so William scanned the list. There was no officer send out already with the name ‘Gibbs.’ “If he’s here, he hasn’t come by yet.”

The man looked at him like he was crazy. “DiNotso, what the Hell are you doing?”

William felt the beginnings of a headache playing in his forehead. It was a soft thump at his right temple, nothing awful or debilitating. It was just enough to make William take notice of it and dismiss it. If it got worse, he’d take something for it. But for now, it was a minor annoyance. The kid was who was important—not him and certainly not a headstrong FBI agent who probably thought he knew best but should have retired years ago. “I’m sorry, I don’t know a DiNotso. My name’s William L—”

The FBI crossed his arms over his chest and stared at him, anger in his beady little eyes. “Stop playing around, Tony. Where’s your boss?”

“A fifteen-year-old boy is missing. I was hired by his father to find him. I’m in charge on the scene until we find him. And I would appreciate your help in that matter, Agent…”

The man looked exasperated with him by this point. “Fornell.” He spat the answer, as though expecting William to have known it all along. He was quiet for a moment. “I’ll be right with you. Just let me make a phone call first.”

No doubt, the man was calling this Gibbs fellow. That was fine, so long as he was willing to help when he was done. William didn’t have time for anyone who wasn’t here to find the kid. More vehicles were pulling up in the lot, double-parking, blocking exits. Well, that was one way to keep possible witnesses from leaving the scene.

 

*

 

The phone in Gibbs’ pocket rang. Normally, he wouldn’t answer it at a crime scene. Normally, he wouldn’t even pull it out to check it. But it might have been someone calling about Tony. For all he knew, it might have _been_ Tony calling. Gibbs pulled the phone out while it was still ringing and buzzing the first time and saw on the large screen that the person calling was in fact Fornell. Great. Was the bastard pulling out already? Gibbs had just called him before leaving the office. What was the point in being annoyed by a case if he couldn’t get Fornell in on the annoyance as well? Gibbs flipped the phone on and answered, “Gibbs.”

“Gibbs, what’d you tell that idiot DiNotso to do now? Is this some sort of kinky roleplaying the two of you are involved in? What you two do in the bedroom is your own business, but this is just—”

“Fornell, what the hell are you talking about?”

“You know. I’m talking about your second in command, sitting here at command central on top of a car in the parking lot, barking orders and pretending like he doesn’t know me, that’s what. I have half a mind to arrest him again—”

Gibbs took off running. McGee and Ziva were still getting out of the car and called after him, but he didn’t stop. They’d catch up, but he didn’t care. Tony. Fornell was a bastard, but the man knew Tony DiNozzo when he saw Tony DiNozzo. He was aware of Fornell yelling at him through the phone in his hand that wasn’t anywhere near his ear now, equating to just so much noise. He felt resistance as he pushed past bodies—men and women, officers, FBI agents, who knew who else. He had his sights set straight ahead but, as he neared the area, he stopped dead in his tracks.

It was Tony. Tony looked… well, he looked just the same as the last time Gibbs had seen him, weeks ago, only this time with clothes on. Gibbs could hear him talking, grouping people, asking their names, and giving directions of where to start looking. It was surreal and confusing, but Gibbs hardly cared.

He stormed forward again, pushing past strangers and past Fornell trying to get his attention to his left, having given up barking at him through the cell phone. He went right up to Tony, heart racing, and Tony looked back at him.

“And what have we got here? You’re not dressed well enough to be FBI.”

Gibbs stared at him. “Tony… it’s me. Gibbs.”

“Oh, _you’re_ Gibbs.” For the first time, recognition lit Tony’s face. But it was just a glimmer. Tony rubbed his hand over his forehead briefly, the way he did when he had a pounding headache. “That FBI agent mentioned you. I’m glad you could finally join us. Don’t worry; there are plenty of grid squares left to cover.”

“Tony…”

“The name’s William Leverson.”

In all his years at NCIS and in the marines, Gibbs had seen a lot of things. He’d seen people who were dead ringers for others, until you noticed that one little thing that made them not exact doppelgangers. But this… this was his Tony DiNozzo. Not William Leverson. Not anyone else. But before Gibbs could figure out how to say this, Tony’s walkie-talkie squawked.

“Leverson here. Over.”

“Leverson, we’ve found the boy! He’s hurt and needs medical attention, but he’s conscious. Over.”

And that was when Tony’s face broke out in a grin—not when he saw Gibbs, but now, this very moment, for this very reason. Tony turned to Gibbs. “Looks like you missed all the fun.” Into the walkie, he answered, “That’s great. Tell me where and I’m on my way. Over.” He slid off the car, landing deftly on his feet.

None of this made any sense, but he’d be damned if he was going to let Tony out of his sight now. As Tony started walking, he walked after him. The crowd parted for Tony, but not for Gibbs, who shouldered and shoved through. He stretched his arm out to grab Tony. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do—maybe just get him to slow down, maybe slap sense into him, maybe kiss him until he remembered. But Gibbs never got a chance to do any of that. He felt a sharp prick on the back of his neck and, as he reached back, his legs gave way. Woozy, he fell to the grass, aware that the world around him was growing dark, despite the fact that his eyes were wide open. He heard a man say something about a treatment, and he heard Tony’s voice replying in the affirmative, and then Gibbs lost consciousness.

 

*

 

William Leverson’s head pounded with pain so intense he could barely see straight. So when the man with blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair appeared in front of him, William felt relieved for some reason. He knew he had to go check on the kid. The guy reporting in on the walkie-talkie had said the boy was injured and needed medical assistance. William hadn’t even had a chance to relay that to the medics standing by. But when the man asked him if he wanted a treatment, he nodded obediently. He knew he should stay, but the man’s arm wrapped around him and supported him, steering him back from the woods.

William found himself in a van, speeding fast through traffic. “The kid needs medical help,” William kept repeating. “And who was that Gibbs guy? He kept calling me something…” Sharp pain gripped his head, firing so strong that William nearly threw up. The motion of the van wasn’t helping much, either.

“Don’t worry about anything. They’ve got the kid and he’s safe. And we’ve taken care of that guy. He was probably a crazy. You know how some people like to show up to these scenes and try to be the hero. For all we know, he could be responsible for the kid’s disappearance.”

Shaking his head, “I don’t… think…” He scrubbed the butt of his hand against his forehead, wincing. “Hurts so much.”

“We’re going straight to the doctor. She’ll fix you up. Just hold on. You trust me, right?”

William found himself nodding. This was Carson. Of course he could trust Carson.  When the man reached an arm out, William leaned loser into him for support and security. The man was so familiar, so stable. He was a private investigator for goodness sake—a private investigator who had just led a successful search operation. But this reassurance was better than any other reward. The hand stroking the back of his head relaxed William and calmed his stomach. Complete comfort. Perfect trust.

They pulled up somewhere and Carson brought him inside an elevator and a building, an arm around William’s waist to make sure he made it without falling over. William collapsed into the white chair, hand to his forehead.

“Does it hurt?” The doctor with the two black—no, blonde—ponytails looked concerned.

He didn’t want her worrying about him, but the pain was so bad he didn’t want to talk. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out. Carson took his free hand and squeezed. “You’ll be okay, buddy.” Then, softer and not directed at William, “You’ll fix him, right?”

William missed the reply completely as he was enveloped in pain and brightness.

When he opened his eyes, he seemed to be alone in the room. Alone with light bulbs and a slowly spinning ceiling fan. Alone in a chair with a raging headache.

 “Good morning, Trey. I hope you’re feeling better?” She sounded rushed, and he couldn’t see her as she spoke. She was a disembodied voice from somewhere behind him.

Trey shook his head. “No, I’m…”

Before he could finish or ask for coffee or a whole caravan load of painkillers, he heard a definitive thud and a grunt. Trey sat up and looked around. The doctor was being pinned down on the ground by a woman with black hair tied back in a severe ponytail. And a man with salt-and-pepper hair was holding someone who could have been his counterpart up against the wall. The man in trouble looked familiar. His name was… well, it was somewhere locked up in his mind. It didn’t matter much, because the man went down.

“What did you do to him?” The question was a threat, and one that went unanswered. Trey stumbled to his feet, head pounding. He didn’t stand a chance. So he backed out of the room, only to find the normally serene hallways crawling with people. They weren’t friends. They weren’t the people in black jumpsuits. They were other people. People with weapons and walkie-talkies, people running and barging into rooms. Trey stood to the side, just watching, until a man came up to him.

He was one of the younger men and he wore a gray suit, lighter than the shade of gray in the room Trey had just been in. “Did they hurt you?” he asked.

Trey shook his head. Of course they hadn’t hurt him. They were trying to help him be his best. But he wasn’t his best. His head hurt and there were so many people around doing things he didn’t understand.

“It’s okay,” the man said, sounding reassuring, though Trey wasn’t entirely sure he could be trusted. “We’re here to take you home. You’re going to be fine now.”

Trey blinked at him. “That sounds good.”


	8. Chapter 8

The only person who could have kept Gibbs from seeing Tony right away was Ducky. The older man had a firm grip on Gibbs’ upper arm, though it was really the look in Ducky’s eyes that kept him there. “They’ve all suffered tremendously. We’re only beginning to understand what’s happened to them, but it appears that they had their identities removed.”

“How is that even possible? I know these people have amazing amounts of technology, but _that?_ ”

Ducky shook his head. “I don’t know. But what I do know is that it’s not just memories, it’s the entire self. Then another identity could be put on its place. They could be made into whatever you most want.”

What Gibbs wanted was Tony. “That’s why Tony thought his name was William Leverson?”

“That’s right. And this William Leverson identity had never met you or Agent Fornell.”

“But he’s okay now?”

“The people at this place say his original identity is back. Due to the circumstances and your insistence, he’s the first one they put right. But that doesn’t mean he’s completely okay. He had his identity stolen, literally, Jethro. It might take some time…”

“I understand that. But it’s not going to get any better with me standing out here in the hallway, is it?”

Ducky’s warm smile was soft and reassuring. “Tony’s been a bit beat up physically. He has some bruises, but for the most part he seems in good health. He’s eager to leave.”

“I bet.” Gibbs was eager to take him home. All he had to do was walk through that door and wrap his arms around Tony and never let him out of his sight again. Simple enough. “Can I go in now, Duck?”

 Ducky nodded and stepped aside. “Go easy on him.”

Gibbs could make no promises. He barged into the NCIS interrogation room, where they’d been holding Tony. This case had turned up more people than NCIS had space for, but Tony was a special case and got this room to himself, for which Gibbs was glad.

When he walked in, Tony had his arms folded on the table and his head resting upon them peacefully. He lifted his head and sat straight up when he saw Gibbs, however. “Can I go home now?”

Gibbs grinned. He certainly didn’t sound like William Leverson any more. There was a healthy look of hopefulness and expectation in his eyes. “Of course. I’ll take you right now.” He held an arm out.

Tony smiled and rose to his feet. “That’s great. But you can just drop me off at the nearest METRO station. You don’t have to take me all the way over to Ballston.”

Gibbs froze. “Tony?” he whispered.

“No, sorry. You must have the wrong room. My name is Terry Esposito.” He narrowed his eyes at Gibbs. “Have we met?”

As Tony held his hand out for Gibbs to shake, a pain struck Gibbs’ gut like a sharp knife.

*

Only half of what McGee was saying made any sense to Gibbs. He kept comparing people to computers and using technical terms that he must have known were going over Gibbs’ head. But after stopping the man the first few times to explain some detail, Gibbs had just given up understanding entirely.

He got the basics anyway. The place had been called the Dollhouse and the people in it, with their identities wiped, had been dolls. Dolls. Tony the doll. They’d wiped him and programmed him to do all sorts of things. McGee was still working on cracking the encryption for the records on the place’s computer. And Ziva was still working on cracking the computer technician, a tall blonde-haired woman who spoke only in riddles and incomprehensible unfinished sentences. It had taken weeks to find Tony and now that they had rescued him, they were going to have to find him all over again.

“Stop, McGee,” Gibbs said, rubbing the back of his head where a headache was starting. “Just tell me if it’s possible.”

McGee looked at Abby for help. And Abby looked more worried than he did. Finally, McGee nodded. “We don’t know how to do it. We don’t even know why it happened. But Tony was copied and then copied back. Looks like the Terry identity is the one that surfaced, but the real Tony has to be in there somewhere. The data had to have gone somewhere. It’s like a program running in the background memory that—”

“So, yes. You will be able to get Tony back. Yes?”

McGee nodded again. “Yes. But I don’t have any idea how—”

“Yes,” Abby repeated quietly. “Tim, that’s a start.”

Gibbs started to turn his head toward Abby, and she kissed his cheek quickly before he’d turned too far.

He walked down the hall to Observation 2 and looked in on the interrogation Ziva was conducting.

The doctor sat at the table, straight in her seat, tilting her head from side to side so that her ponytails waved forward and back in the motion. She seemed completely undisturbed to be there, but she didn’t look like she was having fun either. Ziva stood in front of her, hands on the table, leaning forward. “We need that password.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “You probably do. Unless, of course, you don’t.”

“We do.” Ziva seemed to be working hard to keep her cool. Gibbs almost wished she’d snap and slap the woman, the way he wanted to. But Ziva was professional and knew harming this suspect would be the worst thing they could do. Unfortunately, it looked like the good doctor knew that, too. “And you’re going to tell it to us.”

“Of course I will.” Hope fluttered in Gibbs’ chest. His hands were tightly clenched fists. “If you say the magic word.”

From Ziva’s expression, she had been down this series of questions with the woman before. “And what’s the magic word?”

The woman smiled at her. “Why, it’s the thing you have to say in order for me to tell you the password.”

Exasperated, Ziva slumped into her chair. “All right. Let’s start again. What’s your name?”

“Doctor Panera Sinfield, BS, MS, PhD, PhD, PhD.”

Gibbs left observation. He’d give Ziva another hour to wear the doctor down before he gave it a try. Besides, he had more important things to do. Tony had been parked back at his desk. Palmer was babysitting him while Ducky helped the medical personnel evaluate the other former-dolls. From what they could tell, Tony was the only one whose identity was messed up. The names, faces, and fingerprints of the others all matches driver’s licenses or passports for the others. Even the hockey player who had been kidnapped with Tony remembered who he was and remembered that his wife was going to kill him if he didn’t get home to her.

But none of them remembered the dollhouse or what they’d been doing there. None of them remembered the identities that had temporarily been housed in their heads.

Tony looked up as Gibbs approached and that flash of recognition almost gave Gibbs hope. He could tell Tony wasn’t remembering what they were to each other; he was just remembering an hour ago when Gibbs had been talking to him. “You can head back to Ducky, Palmer.”

Jimmy nodded. “Sure. Thanks.” As he passed Gibbs, he whispered. “Tony wants to go home.”

“I know,” Gibbs replied. He grabbed the chair from his desk and rolled it over to Tony’s, where he sat down campfire-style. It was torture sitting so close to Tony after so long and not being able to touch him. But he didn’t want to spook the man. Better to ease into things before springing the fact that they were as good as married to each other—better than married, actually, because Gibbs actually had a chance of staying in this relationship. “Hey there. How are you feeling?”

Tony shrugged. “Head aches.”

“So does mine,” Gibbs admitted. “Did Ducky—did the doctors—give you something for your head already?”

Tony shook his head. Gibbs rooted around in the bottom drawer of Tony’s desk and pulled out a bottle of Ibuprofen. Tony didn’t have headaches often, but sometimes he had pain in his knee and once in a while painkillers came in handy due to early morning hangovers. He hadn’t been drunk once while living with Gibbs, though, and neither had Gibbs. Tony took the pills and swallowed them with water from a bottle Palmer had gotten him. And it felt natural for Gibbs to take a gulp from the same bottle. Tony gave him a weird look and didn’t touch it again after that.

“When do I get to go home?”

Gibbs had been thinking about the answer to this. “The place you remember as your home isn’t your home. Tony—”

“Terry. My name’s Terry Esposito. I live in a small apartment in Arlington and I work as a trainer doing therapy consultations at the Ketler Capital Iceplex.”

Gibbs shook a little at this but humored him. “Terry,” he tried, and had a quick flash back to that night before Tony left when he had made love to Terry Esposito and said the man’s name over and over again. “You were working undercover at the Iceplex in order to solve a case which, in a roundabout way, you did solve. You’re an agent here at the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. This is your desk.”

The man looked startled; apparently Palmer had just told him where to sit, not why he was sitting there. Tony picked up his Mighty Mouse stapler. “Really? Are you sure this doesn’t belong to some kid?”

Gibbs gave a little smile. “I’m sure. Though sometimes with you, it’s hard to tell the difference.”

He stared at it for a minute, and then he looked at Gibbs. “You say you know me…”

“I know you well.” He knew Tony better than Tony knew himself right now, actually.

“And you say I’m not who I think I am? That I’m some guy who works here and lives…”

“You live in a house.”

Nodding slowly, “Well, that’s at least an improvement over an apartment. Or, is it? Do I live in a run-down dump? It’s a run-down dump, isn’t it?”

Gibbs couldn’t help it; he chuckled. He sounded so much like Tony. Hell, he was Tony. “No, it’s a pretty nice house.”

“And next you’re going to tell me I’m married?”

Hesitating before he answered, Gibbs said, “Not exactly. But you’re as good as married…”

After considering this answer for a few minutes, Tony burst out laughing. “This is a great story, it really is. Thanks for the entertainment, but I’ve been through a lot and I’d really like to be going home now.”

“It’s not a stor—”

“Yes it is. That’s all it is. Until you give me some proof, I won’t be convinced. That’s how I operate.”

“Because you’re a trained investigator.”

“No, because I’m a sports trainer. I value logic and evidence.”

Gibbs nodded. “That’s also because of Rule Three.”

“Rule Three?”

“Yep. Rule Three is to never believe what you’re told. Always double-check.”

“Whose rule is that?”

“Mine.”

“Figures. So how many rules are there?”

“Fifty or so. And you’d finally learned most of them. Because Tony DiNozzo is one of the best agents I’ve ever worked with. And he would need proof.” Gibbs’ hand dove into his pocket and brought out a small tape recorder. He held it in his hand for a moment, turning it over a few times. Then he carefully placed it on Tony’s desk between them. “So I brought this. Are you ready?”

He didn’t look especially ready, but it was going to take a huge jolt to get Tony to snap out of this and come back to him. He hoped this would be it. Gibbs took a deep breath and pressed play.

The tape recorder played white noise for a moment, and following that was a beep and a familiar voice:

> This is Agent DiNozzo checking in from the apartment. First day at work went well and my identity as Terry Esposito seems intact. Just settling in for the night now. No suspicious activity to report. I’ll check in again tomorrow night unless events warrant an immediate response.

Gibbs watched the man as the recording played back. His face betrayed a whole range of emotions from surprise to disbelief to anger. They listened to just the first message. Gibbs had intended to play more for him, but it a soft moan made him turn it off. Doubling over, the man clutched his head between both hands. “Tony?” There was another moan. “Tony, are you okay?”

Shaking, the brown-haired head lifted slightly. One hand came down, reached around the desk, and found the small trashcan as if he’d known it were there. He pulled it over and straightened up enough for Gibbs to see that he looked pale enough to get sick. But he released the trashcan without doing so. Looking up at Gibbs, the look of resolve in his eyes was shockingly strong. “My name isn’t Tony. It’s Terry Esposito. I don’t know what kind of sick joke you’re playing with me, but I haven’t done anything wrong and I want to go home immediately.”

Gibbs knew it was futile to argue with him right now. It had been a long, hard day—for all of them—and rest was probably a good idea. “Okay,” he said softly. “I’ll take you home.”

“To this Tony person’s home, or to mine?”

That knife in his gut twisted just a little. “I’ll take you to Ballston. Unless you’re going to ralph in my car on the way over.”

Shaking his head, Tony replied, “Not unless you’re an awful driver.”

Gibbs didn’t answer. Maybe it was a good thing Tony didn’t remember his driving style.

Parking in that part of Arlington was usually a nightmare, filled with SINKs looking to pick up someone after a few drinks at a bar or have dinner at a nice restaurant. Gibbs only had to circle the block once before squeezing into a spot across the street from the building.

It was amazing seeing how Tony knew the way up to Terry’s apartment without hesitation. His keys had been returned to him along with the clothes he had been wearing when he had been abducted by the dollhouse. Getting them back, out of evidence, had been like a prison release, the first time Gibbs had seen the man’s face truly light up since this whole thing began. But it still wasn’t Tony’s smile; it was Terry’s.

Though Terry might feel right at home in the small apartment, Gibbs felt uncomfortable. They had swept it thoroughly for bugs while trying to find out who had taken Tony, but Gibbs still felt like he was on display somehow. This apartment was no more than a façade, a shallow version of one part of the Tony DiNozzo he loved. It was the Tony DiNozzo who loved movies and gave professional massages and lived alone because he hadn’t ever trusted anyone enough to give his heart away.

“Home sweet home.” Terry threw his keys onto the coffee table, collapsed onto and then sprawled across the couch, and grabbed the remote off the arm. It turned on to AMC, his default channel, but the screen was black. Terry narrowed his eyes at the little silver Cox Connections cable box. “That’s weird. I always pay my cable bill. They wouldn’t disconnect me in just a few weeks, would they? I’d have a notice and warnings.”

“You don’t have cable because this isn’t a real apartment.”

“Right, because it’s for my undercover identity,” Terry said with a sarcastic tone that told Gibbs he wasn’t agreeing so much as playing along.

He checked his DVD collection. A number of the DVDs in front had actual movies in them, but with the ones behind or up high, most of the cases were empty. “I bet you watch a lot of movies,” Gibbs said, and he received just a nod in answer. Terry busily spot-checked all his favorites. “So what was the last movie you remember seeing in theaters?”

He knew exactly how Tony would answer that. He’d dragged Gibbs to every summer blockbuster, but fall movies had been a disappointment to him and they’d just been to one. With Johnny Depp. Because Tony knew Gibbs more than tolerated Johnny Depp.

Terry, however, wasn’t quick to answer. He stood, racking his brain for a response. Then he pressed his palm against his forehead, wincing. “Hurts,” he mumbled. “Gonna go take something.”

He was down the hall before Gibbs could stop him. He’d already had more than a normal dose of Ibuprofen back at NCIS and wasn’t due for anything else for another few hours. The last thing he needed right now was this man overdosing on over-the-counter pain medication. Gibbs quickly raced after the man and found him in the bathroom, standing in front of the sink. The medicine cabinet was wide open and all three shelves inside were pristine and conspicuously empty. “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “No cough drops or dental floss… not even a condom.”

Gibbs wished he could laugh at that, but he refrained. “Why would you need a condom?”

“So I could have safe sex with… with whoever.”

Gibbs stepped closer. He wanted to take Tony in his arms, but his Tony wasn’t anywhere to be found. He wanted to put his hand on the man’s back, but he didn’t want to spook him. “Like your old boss?”

Terry gave a start. He closed the medicine cabinet and the reflection in the mirror on the front of the cabinet made him jump. His eyes searched Gibbs’ reflection, possibly taking in the similarities between the man Tony had invented for Terry’s first serious love. Or possibly he was recognizing more. Did he remember them making love? “You…” he whispered. But before he could finish, he clapped his hand to his head again. “Ow.” There was so much pain in his moan, Gibbs winced as though he could feel it. “Shit! Owwww. This… fucking _hurts!_ ” He doubled right over and steadied himself using the toilet. He put a hand down on the closed toilet seat lid and eyed the trashcan again. Then he whispered, “I think I need…”

Gibbs stepped closer. “What do you need?”

Tony gasped and looked up, his eyes full of tears—from the pain? Or from a memory he couldn’t reconcile? He looked straight at Gibbs and said, “I need Carson.”

The knife in Gibbs’ gut jabbed in deeper, taking permanent hold.


	9. Chapter 9

When Carson arrived at Terry Esposito’s Ballston apartment, he wasn’t alone. Two NCIS agents served as his escort, able to turn doorknobs and push elevator buttons where Carson, with his hands handcuffed behind his back, could not. Carson hadn’t been among those who had investigated Terry’s apartment when he’d been washed and used as a doll, but the apartment wasn’t big enough for anyone to get lost in.

The man Carson knew best as Trey sat hunched over on the couch, holding a cool washcloth to the back of his neck. A glass of ice water sat on the coffee table in front of him. And in an armchair sat a man Carson recognized as the one who had charged at him in the dollhouse doctor’s office.

“Get these damn cuffs off me,” Carson demanded, once the door had been locked behind them and one of the NCIS agents stood guard there to prevent an easy escape. The other NCIS agent hesitated to comply, so Carson tried to reason with them. “Come on, the guy’s messed up enough. He needs my help and he’s not going to get it if I can’t relax around him. Do you want him to be even more suspicious?” It took a nod from the man in the armchair before the cuffs came off.

Rubbing his wrists where the metal had rubbed his skin, Carson slowly made his way over to the couch. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he tried, “Good day. My name is Carson. Are you feeling all right?”

The man’s head snapped up at once. His eyes were wide as he took in every detail. Then he jumped up and threw himself at Carson. Tears were warm against Carson’s shoulder, and the man shook so hard with sobs that Carson was forced to put his arm around him to try to calm him. He looked over at the man in the armchair and saw a strange mixture of jealousy and relief hidden in his expression. Carson wouldn’t have gotten where he was today if he hadn’t been able to get a good read on people, and he was pretty sure that this guy was more than just a boss.

“Hey now,” he whispered into an ear conveniently placed so close as to give them a bit of privacy. “You’re safe. Just calm down.”

Instead of calming, the man yelled through a sob, grabbing at Carson’s shirt. Carson just wrapped his other arm around him and held him close, patiently waiting it out.

Eventually the sobbing subsided and, exhausted, Terry slumped against him. There was a soft, pathetic whimper and the words, “I’m not sure who I am.”

Carson looked over at the man in the chair, who looked back at him and shrugged. They weren’t therapists. They weren’t scientists. Saying the right thing might help to heal him, but saying the wrong thing could severely fuck him up for good. Carson also had a feeling that this other man wasn’t the patient type either.

Terry sniffed and nuzzled his face against Carson’s front, getting Carson’s shirt wet as he dried his face. Carson reached up and stroked the back of Terry’s head. He saw the man in the chair stiffen—definitely more than a boss.

“I’ll help you find out who you are,” Carson promised. He rubbed his hand up and down the man’s back and closed his eyes.

*

The constant, dull pain of a headache was something he could stand. The sudden, stabbing, shooting spasms of pain, on the other hand, were a different story. Every so often, he got a feeling or found an image popping into his head. And after each of those, his head felt like a metal spike was being forced into him at the temples. It was like a backwards lobotomy, with tiny fragments of brain being stuffed into his head instead of being removed or swished about.

Most of the things he saw were nonsensical: a coffee cup, a gun, a dead body, caution tape, a wedding ring, a dog, a clipboard, an envelope sealed with a kiss. But every so often he got a vision of a person—just one person—a man with startlingly blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. Sometimes the man was sitting at a desk. Sometimes the man was standing at a crime scene. Sometimes the man was lying naked in bed.

“Make it stop,” he whispered, as someone laid a cool cloth upon his forehead. Someone tucked a warm blanket around him. Someone stroked his arm through the covers. Someone told him it would stop if he just went to sleep.

He tried to sleep but ended up just lying there, wishing for the relief sleep would bring. When he opened his eyes a bit, he saw his nightstand upon which stood a single red rose in a simple flood vase. Roses were for remembrance.

He was sure he hadn’t bought that for himself. But before he could ask where it came from, images began flooding his head. He put his hand to his head, feeling the cool cloth and a rough hand holding it there.

Formal dancing with a rose between his teeth. A casket with a flag draped over it and roses being placed on top. A glass case full of black roses in a lab. An anniversary dinner with a rose on the table between them. The desk he’d seen earlier with a vase of roses on it—roses that made him sneeze.

He groaned as pain shot through his temples, penetrating sharply through his head and ending with a tight pinch at the back of his head. Nothing he saw made any sense. He could have sworn he’d never seen that desk before, but now he had a memory of it. A memory that made his head feel like it was about to explode into a million pieces.

“Sleep,” came a deep, comforting voice, like a command. Before he could figure out whose voice it was, his eyelids grew heavy and sleep actually claimed him.

*

Now that Tony was resting, Gibbs refused to take his eyes off Carson.

“I was Trey’s handler at the dollhouse,” Carson said, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot in the kitchen. He settled into a chair at the kitchen table and nursed the coffee. Gibbs tried not to feel irritated when he saw the man took his coffee black as well.

“A handler.” Gibbs practically spat the word. “Sounds more like you were a pimp.”

Carson shook his head. “No, not me. That was my boss. My job was just to look after my charge when he was out on an engagement and make sure Trey—”

“Trey?”

“That’s what his doll name was.”

 “His name is Tony.”

“Tony? I thought his real name was Terry.”

“So does he, apparently.” Gibbs was quiet for a while. Then, softly, he admitted, “He trusts you.”

Carson nodded. “Sure. That was part of the programming. He was hardwired to trust me, no matter what identity was in his head. That way I could get him to respond to me any time he was out in the field. If things got dangerous for him, I could pull him out by just saying a few words and he would come obediently, no questions asked.”

“Sounds like a dog.” Not that that was all that different from the way he’d trained Tony after years on the job. He didn’t even have to say a word in order for Tony to obey him; all it took was a look and, occasionally, a smart slap to the back of the head. But that wasn’t forced manipulation; that was working with Tony’s innate desire and ability to be loyal. He couldn’t have wished for someone more skilled and trusting than Tony. Only he hadn’t needed any sort of programming to make that happen. “You said dangerous. What kind of dangerous?”

Carson sat back a little in his chair. For the first time that night, he genuinely looked pleased, like he knew something Gibbs didn’t, like he had something to bargain with. “You haven’t been able to get into all the files, have you?” With a smirk, he added, “Let’s just say that in the short time he was with us, he found himself in a wide variety of situations.”

Gibbs was about to reply, but he stopped himself, lifting his cup of coffee to his mouth instead. It didn’t help him think, but it helped buy him some time. Carson drank as well, that smirk still playing on his face. Minutes passed. The coffee went from searing hot to lukewarm.

It was Carson who finally broke the silence. “How long have you two been involved?”

Gibbs wasn’t the least bit surprised. “Tony’s worked for me for years.”

“That’s not exactly what I asked.”

“That’s all you’re going to get.”

“Oh, I think I got the answer I was looking for.” Sure of himself and just a little bit cocky, Carson didn’t even see the punch coming until he was on the floor with the remains of their coffees pooling amidst the broken mugs around him. “Ever heard the term ‘police brutality,’ Jackass?”

“I’m not the police.” Gibbs said, towering above him. He kicked half of a mug away and squatted down, still looking down at the man. “The way I understand it, you guys like to fly so far under the radar you wouldn’t want to go reporting anything to anyone. So let me tell you how it’s going to work. There’s a man sleeping in a bed that isn’t his with memories that are so jumbled up he thinks you’re me. So you’re going to tell me everything I want to know and somehow we’re going to fix him.”

“And I suppose you’re going to kill me if I don’t?”

“Oh no,” Gibbs shook his head. “I’ve got my best people working on the technology your dollhouse had. When they’re through with you, you won’t remember this conversation. But you might remember something much, much worse.”

One of the NCIS agents who had brought Carson came into the kitchen at the noise. He surveyed the situation for a moment before extending a hand to Carson. “Falling out of your chair. That’s an interesting tactic to try. How’d it work out for you?”

Carson glanced at Gibbs, and then he pushed himself up off the floor on his own. As the agent took care of the mess of broken mugs and spilled coffee, Gibbs sat back down at the table across from Carson. Before either had a chance to speak, Gibbs’ phone rang, startling them both a little.

Pulling his phone out, Gibbs turned in his seat to gain a bit more privacy before answering. “Gibbs.” He paused and then showed his first and possibly only smile of the evening. “That’s great news, McGee. Can you bring them over to Tony’s fake apartment in Arlington? Yes, tonight.” There was another long pause as Gibbs listened and Carson strained, apparently trying to pick up some word or phrase from the other side of the conversation. “Yeah, I know that, but I don’t have one of those gadgets, do I? Just print the files out and drive them over.” A second passed. “Thanks. And McGee? Good work.” A compliment from Gibbs was a rarity, but if any occasion called for one, this was it.

He turned back in his seat, setting his phone down on the tabletop. “My people cracked your good doctor. We’ve got passwords and access codes. We’ve got your files. And you’re going to go through every single one of those engagements of his with me until we figure out what’s going on with him. It’s going to be a long night. Would you like another coffee?”

 Carson looked Gibbs in the eye and, knowing when he was defeated, shook his head.

*

“Poor Tony. I can’t imagine not remembering Gibbs,” Abby said as page after page of reports spewed out of the printer in her lab.

McGee nodded, tapping a few buttons on the keyboard to send another batch of unencrypted PDFs to the printer. “Not only that, but he thinks he’s someone else entirely.”

Abby picked up some of the files and glanced over a page. “He’s been so many people, it’s not surprising that the real Tony DiNozzo got lost in there somewhere. D’you think Gibbs could just head-slap him back to his senses?”

“I don’t think it works like that, Abby,” McGee replied, but he was smiling at the thought. When it came to Tony, Gibbs was the expert. If anyone could find him, he could. But McGee didn’t like to think about how difficult it might be.

The printer finished the last page of the last engagement report. McGee put the documents into folders he had already labeled and piled them all up. Then he stared at them, not even wanting to pick them up. Gibbs wasn’t going to like what was in these files. And there was no telling how Tony would react to them. But if the Gibbs thought that getting this information was the way to get Tony back, the least he could do was to get the files to them.

“Wait,” Abbey said, typing on the computer again. “Let me print out a full copy of Tony’s master file. I think I saw some medical notes or reported or something hinky hidden in-between the engagement reports.” A few keystrokes later, the printer was whirring again and Abby was kissing McGee’s cheek. “He’ll remember. I know he will.”

McGee nodded in agreement. “Yeah, but will he want to come back once he does remember? Look at what happened to Gibbs after that coma of his.”

Abbey considered this for a minute. Seriously, she presented a solution. “Maybe we should buy up every plane ticket to Mexico for the next month so he doesn’t get a chance to run. You know, just in case.”

Chuckling at the awful joke—which was also the best joke he had heard all day—McGee collected all the papers and left by way of his desk to grab his jacket.

*

 

Gibbs had been watching the clock in anticipation. And Carson, uneasy and uncertain, had been watching him.

McGee arrived at the apartment within the hour, bringing a thick stack of folders as well as a coffee he had picked up for Gibbs at a 24-hour diner. The files were going to take hours if not days to wade through. “The main report is right on top, labeled ‘Terry Esposito.’ Who knew that identity was going to be so good? It fooled everyone at the dollhouse.”

“Yeah, well, now it’s fooling Tony.”

McGee pointed to the pile again. “All the other folders are what the dollhouse calls engagements. Those are—”

“I know what they are, McGee.”

“Okay. Great. Do you need anything else?”

Gibbs shook his head, already studying the first page.

“Um, boss, where’s Tony?”

“In bed. Bad headache.” Gibbs didn’t mention the meltdown. He didn’t need McGee picturing Tony huddled helplessly in a ball, shaking and unsure of himself.

“Oh.”

The thoughtful look on McGee’s face caught Gibbs’ attention at once. The elflord always got those right before a moment of brilliance—usually something overly technical… but once it a while it was something so obvious that everyone else had overlooked it or wrongly dismissed it. “McGee….?”

McGee nodded. “I took a quick peek inside the file. The doctor mentioned headaches a few times.”

Gibbs jumped on it, paging through at top speed until spotting an occurrence of the word. He read, and McGee took the silence as a sign that he wasn’t needed any more. He hadn’t been told to go, but it was late and he was eager to get back to the office to process the rest of the files he and Abby had decrypted.

What had started out as a simple case of a hockey player being attacked had turned into a kidnapping ring and a case so large it could take a year or more to put together all the pieces. And even then, they might never figure out everything. Everything from personalities to experiences were stored in little chips back at the office. And there were cube upon cube in box upon box of those. They were looking at upwards of ten thousand chips.

And that didn’t even take into account the people who had hired the dolls to go on these engagements. One of those people was SecNav; even if he had enlisted the dollhouse to do something good, a humanitarian effort, it still meant people in the government knew what the dollhouse was. If people as high up as SecNav were willing to use it and keep it private, it was going to be bigger than that Holly Snow scandal. A whole lot bigger.

“Boss, do you mind if I take off? I’ll be at the office tonight.”

Gibbs looked up, wondering and then remembering. “You can head home. We’ll pick this up again in the morning.”

But McGee shook his head. Gibbs wasn’t surprised; even Abby and Ducky were working late. “Ziva and I have some plans to get some more information out of the doctor. Well, mostly Ziva. It sounds like the doctor’s been working at the dollhouse for years. Now that she’s talking, we want to get as much out of her as we can.” The least he could do was work through the night. After all, Tony would do it for any of them.

*

“Tell me about this one,” Gibbs said, tapping his finger on the next folder. “He went undercover as a best man?”

“Yup.” Carson nodded. “That was an easy assignment. The guy didn’t want to admit to his fiancée that he didn’t have anyone who would be his best man, and she was from a traditional family that wouldn’t let him have a woman best friend stand up for him. So the doc fabricated a best man for him. Two parts responsibility, one part friendship, one part goofiness. He was charming and convincing, performing his duties at the wedding rehearsal and the wedding itself without a hitch.”

Gibbs eyed the man. “So what’s with that smile?”

The smile transformed into a grin. “Our boy sure does look good in a tux, doesn’t he?”

Gibbs curbed his initial instinct to growl. Carson was talking; that was something. But he was also fond of straying toward the inappropriate whenever possible just to try to get a rise out of Gibbs; he was a lot like Tony in that way.

“Weddings are an easy gig. A couple days in Ocean City, Maryland. Champagne around every corner. Beautiful women…” he looked at Gibbs pointedly. “And men.”

Gibbs wasn’t playing. “So you dropped Tony off and went out to get drunk and screw around?”

“Of course not! It’s just that I didn’t have to worry about him getting hurt or killed or exposed. All I had to do was get him there and sit back to watch. I barely left the van once all weekend. I take my job seriously, Gibbs, just another thing I suspect we have in common. Funny, isn’t it?”

“What?” Gibbs’ teeth were clenched.

“How much we have in common. We even look a lot alike. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice that.”

Gibbs’ fist under the table was clenched so tightly one of his tendons was likely to snap. But when he spoke, he sounded calm and in charge. “Except the difference is that what Tony and I have is real. The relationship the two of you had was orchestrated and forced upon him.”

“No,” Carson said, shaking his head. “You saw how he was last night. The difference is that now he trusts me and has no idea who you are to him.”

*

He woke, his head absolutely pounding. He thought about getting up, but he felt like his head was going to explode if he tried to move. And every few seconds, another image flashed in front of his eyes; he wasn’t going to get very far with them standing in the way.

As he lay in bed, he saw a whip. He felt it striking his backside—repeatedly. He saw a hundred dollar bill being stuffed through a small hole in a metal wall. He saw a duck flying over a riverbank. He saw a young woman hunched over a dead boy’s body, snorting something out of his intestines. He saw a handsome man lying spent on satin sheets, grinning up at the ceiling. He saw a woman lying dead on the concrete, a bullet hole in her forehead. Were these scenes from movies he’d seen long ago, coming out now that he was stressed? Or were they memories?

When he opened his eyes, he saw his own bedroom and knew at least where he was. His head fit perfectly into his pillow, the blankets were reassuringly warm, holding him down as if he belonged there and nowhere else. It wouldn’t have been too hard to pretend that this was just any old day at home. Except that he knew there was a man out there who insisted he wasn’t really Terry Esposito, even though he couldn’t remember ever meeting the man before. And there was a man out there who he _knew_ and felt drawn to, even though he couldn’t remember how he had come to know and trust that man.

It was the strangest sensation, not being sure of one’s self. It made him feel suspicious of everything, even the comfortable bed he lay in.

Another intense pain stabbed his head and he saw a beautiful woman in front of him, climbing into a limousine. Then he saw a cute black-haired woman in pigtails who he was tackling to the floor as gunshots rang out over their heads.

He moaned and flattened his palm over his forehead, trying to block the pain out and make the visions stop. If what he was seeing really were memories, he’d take the ones without the dead bodies and danger, thank you very much.

“G’morning.”

He lifted his head and saw the door to his bedroom was cracked ever so slightly, with a blue eye staring in at him. He blinked back at it, not sure if he really was awake or this was all just some sick dream that wouldn’t end. His voice was unsteady and uncertain as he answered, “I could use a coffee.”

No one spoke. They sat in Terry Esposito’s darkened bedroom, drinking coffee out of mismatched mugs. One of the men gave him more painkillers to combat his headaches, and he thought about telling of some of the weird images that had popped into his mind, and then he decided not to. Those were for him to figure out. These men had their own theories and opinions, and he didn’t want to be told about himself; he wanted to find out.

It was the NCIS man who broke the silence, having finished his cup of black coffee first. “I thought finding you would be the hard part. I thought maybe you’d been a bit beaten up or underfed. I definitely hadn’t guessed you’d had your memory wiped and been programmed to be a variety of different people.” He smiled sadly. “It’s funny. The Tony DiNozzo I know doesn’t even really like coffee.”

Terry considered these words. He glanced from one man to the other, not sure he wanted to play along. He was still sitting in bed. All it would take was to set down his cup and crawl back under the covers with a cold compress on his forehead and all the problems would be gone again. But, at the same time, he was curious. He realized he wasn’t really drinking the coffee he had asked for, just holding it for its warmth and inhaling its intoxicatingly strong scent. He sipped it and the bitter taste, despite the milk and sugar he’d added, wasn’t the least bit appealing. “All right,” he said softly. He cleared his throat, despite the pain in his head that was making him see the flash of an explosion. “All right. Tell me what happened to me.”


	10. Chapter 10

When Gibbs got back to Terry’s bedroom, his keen senses as an NCIS agent detected two significant differences. The first was that someone had turned on the lights, presumably so that Tony would be able to read the files for himself. The second was that Tony was practically sitting in Carson’s lap. He was sitting up but cuddled against Carson’s side. His finger softly traced the skin around the black eye Gibbs had administered the night before. “Shh, no, I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt. Much. I probably deserved it anyway.”

“He did,” Gibbs said, barging in, interrupting the scene that made his blood boil. He itched to pull Tony away and hold him instead. He wanted nothing more than to punch the man in his other eye, making a nice symmetry of his mocking face. But Tony seemed comfortable and willing to look at the documents now. Gibbs didn’t want to do anything to change that.

He set the first folder down and opened it. The first page was a summary of the client’s request and what the dollhouse had actually provided. The following pages were more detailed, with a copy of the actual signed request from a client, the background check done to prove a client was safe to trust with a doll, and Carson’s own written account of what had transpired during the engagement, from start to finish. But attached to that first page with a paperclip was a photo of the client. She was a beautiful young girl—a budding young starlet who needed an escort to a dance and couldn’t take someone she had taken before, lest the paparazzi find out and make a bigger deal about it. It seemed like a pretty safe engagement to send a doll out on. It might have actually have been pleasurable, if not for the whole mind control, using people as slaves thing.

The phone in Gibbs’ pocket went off again, ringing and vibrating. He’d never figured out how to change his ringtone or set it to silent; Tony always had to do that for him whenever they went to a movie together. The sound made Tony jump, startled for a brief moment, but he was pretty engrossed in reading the file, so Gibbs answered. “Gibbs.”

Ziva was on the other end. “Gibbs, the people we rescued—the former dolls…”

“Yeah?”

“Most of them were not kidnapped. Most of them knew what they were getting into. They _volunteered_ for this.”

A chill ran through Gibbs, settling in his shoulders and upper arms. “How many were like Tony? How many were kidnapped?”

“Too soon for a number, but not many. It might be difficult if not impossible to get most of them to press charges against the dollhouse.”

Gibbs closed his eyes. “All right. Just make sure they all get mental evaluations. If Tony is this…” He stopped himself before he said anything disturbing while right in front of Tony. “If Tony forgot things, it’s possible other people did as well.”

When he finished the short conversation with Ziva, he turned his attention back to Tony and found the man staring unblinkingly at the last page in the folder—a photo of himself with the young starlet on his arm. Tony reached up and rubbed his forehead. “She’s familiar to me. But I don’t remember this.” He looked up, hope filling his eyes. “Maybe I saw her in a movie recently? I don’t know…” Tony stared at the document for a while longer then said, “I think I remember dancing with her.”

Gibbs knew that Tony didn’t dance—at least, not the sort of dancing he would have done at a fancy party like this one. That had to have been programmed into him as part of a false identity.

“That’s right,” Carson said, nodding. “You danced with her for hours. The two of you were in the spotlight. It was beautiful.”

That confused look on Tony’s face made Gibbs want to reach over and hold him. He seemed to be coming to terms with the fact that this had happened, that it was real, that it was part of a person who wasn’t him any more and never would be again. Tony rubbed hard at his forehead and then at the back of his neck, at the base of his head. “Richard Smythe,” he said at last. “Not me.”

“That’s right,” Carson said, as if this whole thing could be as simple as a game of ‘Real Identity or Programmed Identity?: the home edition.’

They moved on to the next folder. This was one that Gibbs was worried about. He watched Tony closely, seeing the red flush of embarrassment rise up in his face as he realized he had been a dominatrix’s play thing and there was documented proof of it. Tony closed the file when he got to the line stating that the woman had scheduled three more sessions with him. “But I’m…”

“As gay as a rainbow colored picnic basket?” Gibbs finished for him, and Tony suddenly looked even more embarrassed.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. And he shot a quick look at Carson.

That knife, slowly and painfully twisting in Gibbs’ belly, slid out and then in again with a sudden, sharp pain of realization. Tony’s mind was a mess. But somewhere in there that undeniable trust for Carson that had been programmed in him had taken over. Not only did Terry Esposito trust Carson the way he should have trusted Gibbs, but now Terry Esposito cared for Carson the way Tony had cared for Gibbs. It was pretty clear that the dollhouse had believed and bought into the fake identity, so they couldn’t have known what they were doing when they chose Carson as a handler. But Tony’s mind was so broken it was trying to put the pieces together so it made sense. He couldn’t trust his instincts.

And if that were the case, Gibbs didn’t have a clue how to get the real Tony back, though he was pretty sure punching Carson again wasn’t going to do it.

Carson spoke up, reassuring him. “There wasn’t any lasting physical damage. Our doctor at the dollhouse was good and she was able to remove the marks the whip made.”

Tony’s intentions weren’t the least bit ambiguous when he asked to be excused to go to the bathroom. Gibbs wanted to race after him, to inspect him as well. No one left marks on his Tony and got away with it.

Except that this wasn’t his Tony. This was Terry. Or Trey. Or Arthur. Or Jack. Or William. Or one of a dozen people Tony had been this month. They were all in him now and somehow Gibbs was going to have to find a way to get rid of all of them but leave Tony behind.

*

Going folder by folder, engagement by engagement, it took more than three hours to get through all but the last folder, which was apparently his profile. His headache had gotten so bad he’d had to stop a few times. The NCIS agent, Gibbs, suggested that the headaches corresponded with the times when Tony confronted things that were most like his real identity. All Terry knew was that he was even more confused than ever and the intense pain in his head was making things worse and not better. Once or twice he even bolted for the bathroom down the hall, sure he was going to be sick to his stomach, but not actually retching. 

His worst incident was when he was being told about being a man named Benjamin, love interest for a man named Simon. For some reason, being dominated sexually by a woman had horrified Terry, but being a man in love with another man set Terry on what might have been a mild mental breakdown.

As the details were revealed, he felt his heart racing. He was suddenly aware that there was no air in his lungs. He tried taking deep breaths, tried breathing more, but nothing got in. He ran his fingertips over the description of the elaborate ruse Simon had requested, focusing on words like ‘marriage’ and ‘love’ and ‘home.’

The shooting pain in his temples was so bad it overwhelmed him. He couldn’t think, couldn’t make himself breathe, couldn’t calm himself down. A blackness crept over him that was so dark he couldn’t see the words in front of his face. Instead, he saw in his mind the image of a painting. A painting of a house. A cozy little house with a front porch where he could sit and a chimney with smoke spilling out of the stack.

He opened his eyes to find himself on the floor. Tears ran down his face and, as Carson bent down to ask how he was feeling, all that mattered were those warm arms around him. He didn’t know where that house was or why it had showed itself to him then of all times, but he knew Carson was real. He knew Carson cared about him. He knew Carson understood.

The warm arms squeezed tightly and a hand rubbed his back. “Let me get you more Ibuprofen,” said Carson.

“He shouldn’t have more for another hour,” Gibbs said.

“Go get the damn medicine and a glass of water. The boy’s hurting.”

He couldn’t help but think that the pain he felt was so much worse than anything an extra over-the-counter pain killer could touch. Every bit of him hurt, right down to his soul. “No, no. I’m feeling much better, thanks.” But the tears in his eyes told a different story. He buried his face against Carson’s chest and sobbed.

Even when he was laid down in bed, he wouldn’t stop crying and he wouldn’t let go of Carson. He clung to the man for reassurance and security. He trusted that Carson would somehow know how to make all of this stop. He wanted to know what had happened to him, how he had been used. And Carson had been there, Carson had seen it all. But this was just too much. It was one thing to be used as a sex toy or a date to a party, as a guide in the wilderness or a bowling coach. It was quite another for someone to pretend they were married. They hadn’t ever met before, yet he had been forced to make love to this stranger—repeatedly—by being programmed to think that they were a married couple in a committed, romantic relationship. It was sick.

“I think he needs a break,” Gibbs said at last. Tony looked up, only just realizing that the NCIS agent was in the room. Gibbs was standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest. “How about pizza and a movie?”

The man found himself nodding affirmatively at that suggestion before he had even given it any thought. He wiped his face against the shoulder of Carson’s shirt, one of the few parts within reach that was still dry enough to do some good. He coughed and sniffled and accepted a tissue when it was dangled in front of his face.

Then he was scooted over to the bathroom so he could clean up and take a shower. He wouldn’t have minded if Carson had stayed with him, but Carson took the opportunity to put on one of Terry’s clean shirts instead.

The water was almost too hot to stand, but it still felt wonderful as it poured down upon him, drowning out his worries and reducing him to a state of relaxation he hadn’t thought possible. The smell of pizza from the living room upon his emergence from the steamy bathroom only added to the effect. He sat down in an armchair, forcing the other men to share the couch, though they sat on it with as much room in-between them as possible.

“Pepperoni!” he exclaimed when the top of the box was tossed back. “My favorite!”

Gibbs nodded curtly, as if that fact was well-known. Instead of beers, there were sodas, and the bubbles were welcome in his mouth, making his stomach jump.

Jurassic Park was the DVD of choice, one of the few movies actually in the place apparently, and the pizza was devoured before the scientists and archeologists had actually made it to the island.

Having seen this movie a hundred times before, Terry spent much of it watching the other men instead. Carson seemed laid back, at ease, despite the dinosaurs on screen creating chaos. He sat back on the couch, almost lounging. Gibbs on the other hand, sat up straight. He pretended to be watching the movie, but most of the time he was watching Terry. Gibbs’ gaze kept falling upon him, as though trying to look right into him.  Each time, Terry could feel him looking, and he realized he liked it; it was like the agent actually cared about him. Once, their eyes actually met and Gibbs held his gaze for close to a minute before breaking away to pick up the empty pizza box and walk it to the trashcan in the kitchen.

Terry insisted they watch the movie through to the end of the closing credits. He remembered liking the music, and that was what he told the men when they asked. But really he found himself captivated by the constant stream of names scrolling by. All these people were real people, with lives and identities and memories.

When it was over, and the room was silent again, it was Terry who spoke up. “That tape recorder from yesterday… the one with the message recordings I supposedly left? Can I listen to those?”

Gibbs hesitated then nodded. “Tomorrow. The recorder is at work. I’ll have one of my people bring it by tomorrow morning.”

That would have to do. Tony went off to bed, on his own. And though he had a hard time falling asleep, he could imagine all those identities of his as names on a screen, scrolling upward, vanishing into the blackness, never to appear again. No more whips, no more bachelor parties, no more romantic engagements. There were still plenty of strange, unexplainable images in his head, but he hoped that with a little more information, he’d be able to figure out where they had come from. And then he’d be able to put all this behind him and go back to work at the Iceplex.

*

“What if he wakes up and asks for me?”

“I’ll tell him you’re being held in a secure location.”

“He’s bound to have another breakdown, you know.”

Gibbs nodded. “Oh, I’m counting on it.” Gibbs thanked the man for his assistance, and smiled as the NCIS agents escorted Carson back to NCIS headquarters, one officer staying behind to continue guarding the door to the apartment.

It was obvious Carson cared for Terry, or Trey, or whatever he thought the man’s name was. But as long as he was there, Tony was never going to fully accept who he really was. 


	11. Chapter 11

Gibbs opened the door early the next morning to find Ziva, McGee, Abby, Ducky, Palmer, and breakfast. He bristled at the uninvited company, though the smell of coffee softened him slightly. “It doesn’t take all of you to drive a voice recorder over.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Ducky agreed.

“If you had your laptop on, I could have just sent the files directly over to you,” McGee pointed out.

“We brought breakfast.” Palmer held up the two large bags he was carrying.

“And coffee,” Ziva added.

“We want to see Tony,” Abby said. She squeezed through the doorway past Gibbs and the others followed her in.

Too exhausted to stop them, Gibbs sighed and stepped aside. He wanted to see Tony as well.

As it was, the man was still in bed; apparently no matter who he was, he liked to sleep in. “Right now he isn’t Tony. He didn’t react very well when I played the recording for him the first time. I have no way to know what he’ll do this time. His headaches are awful and I’m not sure having a bunch of people he doesn’t know surrounding him is a very good idea.”

“It’s just breakfast.” Palmer shrugged and began unpacking the bags, placing bagels, cream cheese, sugary pastries, and fruit on the apartment’s small table. Ziva set the disposable cardboard coffee thermoses down as well and set out Styrofoam cups.

Abbey’s shoes were so tall she barely had to strain to kiss Gibbs’ cheek properly. “We just want to let him know there are people out there who care about him—the real him.”

“And I’d like to take a look at him again, especially if those headaches are getting worse.”

Fairly reluctant, Gibbs gave in to the mob and went to the bedroom to get Terry. Terry stirred when Gibbs roused him with a gentle shake and a “Hey, it’s time to get up.” A violent yawn and stretch pulled him from his slumber enough to realize he was in a room alone with Gibbs. “Where’s Carson?”

“He… had to go.”

“Did you arrest him? Or charge him with kidnapping?”

Gibbs shook his head. “He was a big help with you; that counts for something. He won’t do time.”

That didn’t seem to pacify Terry, but the sound of a pot clanging and the beep of an oven from the other room made him jump and sit upright in bed.

“Some friends came to see you.”

“I don’t want to see them. I want to listen to the recordings; you promised to play them for me.” He rubbed the back of his neck, as if starting to get a headache already.

“I will. I have them. But maybe you should have a bite to eat first.”

Terry didn’t seem especially won over by the idea. He fell backwards, head hitting his pillow, body bouncing a little on the mattress. “Sometimes I see these things, weird images that don’t match any of those identities they programmed me with. I can’t figure out where they fit in my life. The only thing I can figure is that… that I was some sort of agent, like you say.”

“You are an agent. And Terry Esposito wasn’t your only undercover identity.”

He nodded. “I’ve had flashes… of fixing my hair in a hotel room while wearing a smoking jacket, of getting into a limousine with a beautiful woman and an older man with a French accent, of being handcuffed to this geeky-looking guy and running through a small creek, of lying in a hospital bed struggling to breathe, of kissing a woman in a bar.” He paused. “And you were right, I am gay.”

Gibbs smiled. “If it makes you feel any better, that woman you kissed in the bar turned out to be a transvestite.”

Terry stared at him. “Surprisingly, that doesn’t.”

“You’ve made a lot of memories over the years. Some good, some horrible. I wouldn’t blame you if you felt that being Terry Esposito is easier. But there are good things about being Tony DiNozzo. And five of those good things are right outside, putting together a good breakfast for you.”

He thought about this for a while, apparently torn between getting up and pulling the covers up over his head and forgetting all of this. Eventually, he chose to get up and out of bed. He showered and changed. Face flushed from the heat of the shower, he was surprised to find Gibbs in the hallway afterward, waiting for him when he emerged. “Do I need an escort to my own kitchen?” he asked, trying to peer past Gibbs to get a look at the group he could hear bustling around.

Gibbs knew Tony DiNozzo better than anyone. He knew how Tony reacted to situations, how Tony performed best, what Tony liked. But he didn’t know much about Terry Esposito. From what his gut told him, though, Terry was something of a loner. The man was easily overwhelmed and not so good with change. He was much more likely to hang by the side of the room, clinging to Carson, than to jump into the middle of a group consisting of Abby and Ziva and Ducky; he was likely to be smothered to death.

So he insisted on leading the way, and found the group circled around a small table, covered in food. How all of the items had fit in those little bags they’d brought, Gibbs didn’t know. It was possible it had multiplied while he had been in Terry’s bedroom.

The moment Abby caught sight of him, she made straight for him. Gibbs intercepted her, putting an arm around her. “Go easy on him,” he whispered in her ear before turning and setting her free again. By the time she got to Terry, her momentum disrupted, she settled on giving him a warm hug instead of squeezing the breath out of him.

Awkwardly, Terry raised his hand and patted her back. “Hi there. Well, this is certainly a friendly welcome.”

She tilted her head back, smiling up at him. “Just what I was going for. How are you doing?”

It wouldn’t have taken an investigator as skilled as Gibbs to hear the lie in Terry’s voice when he replied, “Fine. I’m just fine. Good to… see you.”

“It’s okay that you don’t remember me,” she said, pulling back. “You will.” She reached down and took his hand in hers, squeezing it. “C’mon. I’ll get you a bagel with salmon spread. That’s your favorite.” Abby pulled him over to the table.

There weren’t enough chairs at the table for them all, so they settled in the living room on the couch and floor.

The center of the home Gibbs and Tony shared was the living room. When Gibbs had lived alone, he rarely even ventured into the other rooms, unless it was for a shower or some ice in the freezer. After the dinner the night before and this breakfast, this living room almost felt like home to Gibbs. Terry sat sandwiched between Abby and Gibbs on the couch, and Gibbs felt him lean in more than once, probably pleased to have someone familiar at his side. Gibbs knew better than to hope it was Tony’s instincts as Gibbs’ second in command coming through. He wasn’t more than just a replacement for Carson right now.

Despite the fact that Terry had no idea who anyone was, breakfast was a very enjoyable affair. Work was pretty much the only thing they all had in common, and yet it wasn’t mentioned once. They told stories. They discussed books. They joked around. After a while, Terry piped up with a question, “Do you guys do this sort of thing often?” and a hush fell.

“No, not often,” Gibbs replied. When was the last time they’d all been together like this outside of a case? Caitlyn Todd’s funeral? Jenny’s? No, there had been that Thanksgiving at Ducky’s a few years back. Getting them all together like that had been like pulling teeth, and it had almost not happened a dozen times. But it had been wonderful and warm and not at all awkward. And, strangely, neither was this breakfast.

“Not as often as we should,” Ducky added, smiling reassuringly.

When they had all finished eating, Ducky performed a quick exam on Terry, which mostly consisted of looking into his eyes with a pocket-sized mini-flashlight and asking a bunch of questions about the headaches. There wasn’t much he could do without performing an MRI or CAT scan on Terry.

“For the time being, Anthony—” Terry shifted uncomfortably at that name. “—take the painkillers regularly and a third one if it’s extra bad. And try to remain calm and unstressed.”

Terry laughed at that impossibility. “Thanks, Doc.” And the sudden pain he felt in his head made him wince and slap his hand to his forehead. “Thanks… Duck,” he said, wincing again.

“My dear boy, perhaps you should lie down?” Ducky stood to make room for Terry to bring his legs up onto the couch with him. Terry curled into the fetal position, a hand clamped on the part of his head that hurt the most.

Gibbs came over to survey the damage. He didn’t want Tony listening to those recordings if he were already in severe pain. But Terry wasn’t going to start remembering things if he spent all day sleeping with a cold pack against his temple.

“He doesn’t look so good.” Gibbs frowned down at the man, wishing he could do something more for him.

Ducky nodded. “No, he doesn’t, Jethro. In fact, if this keeps up, we’ll have to take him somewhere for extensive tests. I doubt there has ever been a case of amnesia quite like this, but maybe they can prescribe him stronger medicine that will at least take the edge off the worst of the pain.”

Gibbs nodded. “Thanks for coming today.”

“My pleasure. We should make an effort to do this more. Perhaps I could invite everyone over for tea some day. I could brew a few different pots, bake some cookies, and make some cucumber sandwi—”

Ducky broke off suddenly because Terry, from his spot on the couch, began screaming. He wasn’t yelling or moaning or even shouting. They were loud, ear-piercing screams of terror and pain. He writhed, both hands pressed to his head.

Gibbs didn’t know what was happening, but he knew he wouldn’t want Abby, McGee, Palmer, or especially Ziva watching. If another breakdown was imminent, he wouldn’t appreciate losing himself in front of an audience of strangers. Ducky ushered everyone but Gibbs out of the apartment, leaving a few remnants of breakfast on the counter and the table and the smell of coffee lingering in the air.

Gibbs turned to Ducky, not knowing what to do, but the older man was across the room on his phone. “Yes, of course it’s an emergency. The address is 850 North Randolph Street.”

Kneeling down, Gibbs did the only thing he could thing to do, and that was to put a hand on Terry’s shoulder. The man did not wriggle away from it or push it off. In fact, his shoulder rose a little, inviting the touch. Gibbs risked it and moved closer, his ears hurting from the constant screaming.

Unable to take it, Ducky put a finger in his ear and called out, “I’ll wait for the ambulance downstairs!”

This was going to be difficult to explain to EMTs, but something was most definitely wrong with Terry. Gibbs’ hand slid up and stroked the man’s head. He couldn’t be absolutely sure, but the screams decreased in volume just a little. Hoping it wasn’t going to do more harm than good, Gibbs swung his hand back and tapped the back of Terry’s head.

Immediately, he stopped screaming. With tears running down his cheeks, he looked up at Gibbs. “I remember.” The whisper was chilling.

“What?” Gibbs prodded, anxious. “What do you remember?”

Tony blinked and, slowly, a smile appeared on his face. “Everything, Gibbs. I remember everything.”

*

Neither the MRI nor the CAT scan turned up anything abnormal in Tony’s brain. At least, nothing abnormal for Tony. “My mind’s always been unique. Too bad this experience didn’t fix it.”

Gibbs, squished up beside him in the hospital bed, against doctor’s recommendations, chuckled just a little, so as not to shake the bed too much. “I love you and your crazy mind. I wouldn’t want it any different.”

Tony nuzzled against him, indicating that he wasn’t planning on going anywhere.

“Everyone’s planning on stopping in to see you later. They’ll only allow you two additional visitors at a time, so they’re probably fighting to work out the order right now.”

“The girls will win. You want to bet on it?”

“I’d be crazy to take that bet.”

Tony laughed and closed his eyes.

“How’s your head feeling?”

It still hurt. And every so often there was a stabbing pain in his head again, as if it was trying to remind him about something crucial. “Still hurts a little, but it’s pretty mild. Not like those horrible pains I got before with the flashes of memory. I bet by tomorrow my head will be perfectly fine and I’ll be able to go back to work on Monday.”

“Oh no you don’t!” Gibbs draped an arm around Tony protectively, and Tony snuggled closer to him to reassure Gibbs.

“Afraid I’ll get kidnapped and have my mind wiped again?”

“No. I don’t think there’s much chance of that happening a second time, now that the dollhouse has been shut down.”

“Afraid I’ll wear myself out back at work and give myself another headache?”

“Not exactly. I just want to take you home and do all of the things I haven’t been able to do for weeks. And that’s going to take longer than a weekend to get through.”

Tony warmed, sure he should have been embarrassed by the dirty thoughts flittering through his mind now, but feeling grateful for them instead. His arousal stirring, he pressed his body right against Gibbs’, feeling the man’s hardness to match his own. This was his favorite place in all the world to be. And now that he could finally remember that fact, he was going to make sure Gibbs understood he wasn’t going anywhere.

Footsteps caught Tony’s attention. Two pairs: one deliberate and consistent, the other heavy and shuffling. He opened one eye and saw Ziva and Abby make their entrance. 


	12. Chapter 12

Tony’s hands slid up Gibb’s back, slick with massage oil. Gibbs endured it silently, though every so often a small grunt or gasp queued Tony into the fact that Gibbs was in heaven. He wished he could say he’d missed this during the time he’d been away, but he was sure he would have. If he had been able to remember anything about his life, it would have been Gibbs.

Gibbs’ thoughts were apparently in line with his. “I felt a little jealous of those players you worked on at the Iceplex.”

“I’ll work on you like this whenever want me to. You don’t even have to say a word, just strip down and lie face-first on the bed and I’ll come running with the oil.”

Gibbs grunted again. “Careful, or I may just take you up on that.”

“Any time, Jethro.” The butt of one of Tony’s palms hit a knot and applied just a bit more pressure, working it until it softened and Gibbs moaned. “There. I think that was the last of the worry about me gone.”

Gibbs breathed out heavily in a little half-sigh. “I knew in my gut that you’d remember eventually. My only worry was that you would like being Terry Esposito more. And, if given the choice, you’d choose the less dangerous job that doesn’t have you out in the woods in the middle of the night or knee deep in dead bodies.”

Tony’s hands paused a moment. It was true that he had enjoyed using his sports medicine degree and pretending to be a trainer. It was true he had enjoyed having a nine-to-five job that didn’t require much out of him. And it was true he liked going out after work to have drinks with coworkers. But nothing compared to working at NCIS. “I chose the life I have and, if I had to do it over, I’d have chosen the exact same thing. Hmmm.” He began rubbing again, hands sliding across Gibbs’ shoulder blades. “With one minor exception.”

“What’s that?”

Tony leaned forward and kissed the back of Gibb’s neck in an unprofessional move that would certainly not be allowed at the Ketler Capitals Iceplex. “I would have told you sooner that I had it bad for my boss. We wasted so much time when we could have been together.”

Gibbs turned his head, looking back over his shoulder at Tony, who was straddling Gibbs, sitting on the backs of his thighs. “Not wasted. Just waiting for the right time and place.”

Tony smiled. The right time had been just after they’d gotten a murderer to confess. Tony’s interrogation technique had been a thing of beauty, making the suspect dance around the truth for half an hour straight before the wrong little detail accidentally slipped out. The suspect had known it the second he’d said it. And Tony had known it the second he heard it. He had turned his head and looked right into the one way-mirror, right where he’d known Gibbs was standing. The right time had been in the elevator on the way to the parking garage, probably giving the security guards on duty an eyeful but not caring one bit.

“The right word,” Tony said softly, remembering exactly how Gibbs had said ‘good job’ and Tony had tried not to look thrilled, had tried to pass it off as a moment of brilliance and pride purely because of the confession and not because he had done something to elicit those words from Gibbs. ‘I was taught by the best,’ Tony had replied. And, before they both knew it, they were teaching each other the curves and techniques of their kiss. Tony knew what he had gone through—being kidnapped, imprinted with a dozen identities, and having his fake persona take over—but it still seemed impossible that he could have ever forgotten that first kiss.

“The right word,” Gibbs agreed, Tony’s undercover distress word popping back to mind. “Who’d have thought the right word was cucumber?”

Tony chortled and flopped down on the bed beside Gibbs, pressing his cock against the warm and oil-slicked skin. “You want a cucumber? I’ll show you a cucumber!”

The End


End file.
